POEMS 


1_^22^( 


POEMS 


BY 

ALFRED   NOYES 


WITH   AN   INTRODUCTION   BY 
HAMILTON   W.    MABIE 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 

L918 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1906, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  1906.     Reprinted 
March,  1908;   September,  1909  ;  February,  1911;  August,  1912; 
April,  1913  ;  June,  December,  1913;  April,  1914;  March,  1915; 
February,  November,  1916;  October,  1917. 


Norfoootj  $«zs 

J.  S.  Cushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


INTRODUCTION 

It  will  interest  American  readers  to  know 
that  Mr.  Noyes  was  born  on  the  sixteenth  day 
of  September,  1880,  and  published  his  first  poem 
in  the  weekly  edition  of  the  London  Times 
while  in  residence  at  Exeter  College,  Oxford. 
That  he  had  other  than  literary  interests  is 
evidenced  by  the  fact  that  he  rowed  in  the 
college  eight  for  three  years.  After  leaving 
college  he  contributed  poems  to  leading  English 
periodicals,  including  the  Spectator,  Bookman, 
Outlook,  and  Speaker;  while  most  of  his  longer 
pieces  found  places  in  what  Poe  called  "  the 
most  famous  magazine  in  Europe,"  Blackwood's. 

Five  volumes  of  verse  contain  Mr.  Noyes's 
published  work  to  this  time.    All  these  books 


Vl  INTRODUCTION 

bear  London  imprints,  and  three  are  of  the 
slender  proportions  which  suggest  the  young 
poet  modestly  seeking  his  own  in  the  mob  of 
modern  readers.  "The  Loom  of  Years"  ap- 
peared in  1902,  "  The  Flower  of  Old  Japan"  in 
1903,  "Poems"  in  1904,  and  "The  Forest  of 
Wild  Thyme"  in  1905,  "Drake:  an  English 
Epic"  in  1906.  Of  these  books  of  verse  two 
are  devoted  to  lyrics  on  a  wide  range  of 
themes,  while  in  "The  Flower  of  Old  Japan" 
and  "The   Forest  of   Wild  Thyme"  the  poet 

escapes  the 

"  tyranny  of  fact 
To  hunt  the  fairy  gleam." 

These  excursions  into  fairy-land  bear  the 
evidence  of  the  poet's  grace  and  gift  in  their 
freedom,  spontaneity,  joyousness.  They  open 
new  play-grounds  in  this  laborious  modern 
world,   and   betray   the  touch  of  a  hand  pos- 


INTRODUCTION  \ii 

sessed  not  only  of  the  skill  of  craftsmanship  but 
of  imagination :  — 

"  Yet  how  can  a  child  of  the  night 
Brighten  the  light  of  the  sun  ? 
How  can  he  add  a  delight 
To  the  dances  that  never  are  done  ? 

"  Ah,  what  if  he  struggles  to  turn 
Once  more  to  the  sweet  old  skies 
With  praise  and  praise,  from  the  fetters  that  burn 
To  the  God  that  brightened  your  eyes." 

Mr.  Noyes  is  already  well  known  in  England, 
and  the  quality  of  his  work  has  awakened 
the  hope  that  he  is  to  enrich  the  poetry  of  the 
day  with  new  ventures  of  insight  and  art. 
The  poems  collected  in  this  volume  represent 
his  oldest  and  his  latest  work;  many  are  pre- 
sented for  the  first  time,  others  have  been  se- 
lected from  "  The  Loom  of  Years"  and  "  Poems." 
hack  of  space  has  made  it  impossible  in  this 
volume  to  present  Mr.  Noyes's  more  elaborate 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

work,  which,  like  "The  Progress  of  Love,"  a 
lyrical  symphony,  furnishes  abundant  evidence 
of  his  easy  command  of  verse-forms. 

It  is  idle  to  prejudge  a  book  of  verse  which 
is  likely  to  select  those  readers  who  are  most 
sensitive  to  the  fresh  touch,  the  vital  feeling, 
the  individual  skill  in  that  intimate  and  con- 
soling art  to  which  men  have  committed  their 
dreams,  their  divinations,  and  their  visions 
since  language  began  to  turn  to  music  in  the 
hands  of  the  poets.  It  may  not  be  venturing 
too  far  into  the  field  of  individual  judgment, 
however,  to  suggest  that  Mr.  Noyes's  claim 
upon  the  attention  of  those  who  care  for  poetry 
lies  in  the  unusual  blending  in  his  work  of  the 
gay  temper  and  the  serious  mood.  No  singer 
can  refresh  us  in  these  days  who  cannot  bring 
from  his  pipe  the  sounds  which  have  set  the 
feet  of  childhood  flying  in  every  generation; 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

nor  can  any  singer  command  our  thought  to 
whom  the  deeper  undertones  of  life  are  inau- 
dible. Many  things  might  be  said  of  the 
freshness  of  Mr.  Noyes's  use  of  the  imagination, 
of  his  charming  fancy,  of  his  good  luck  with 
phrase  and  epithet;  but  if  he  speaks  to  his 
generation  with  both  beguilement  and  authority, 
it  will  be  because  the  heart  of  the  child  and  the 
mind  of  the  man  are  in  him. 

Hamilton  W.  Mabie. 


CONTENTS 


The  Passing  of  Summer 

PAGB 
1 

Heine's  Dkeam 

8 

The  Venus  of  Milo      .... 

10 

The  Sculptob 

.       13 

Venus  disrobing  v<m  the  Bath 

.       15 

The  Swimmers'  Race     . 

16 

Forty  Singing  Seamen 

.      20 

The  Barrel-organ        .... 

.      31 

The  Highwayman          .... 

.      45 

Tin:  Haunted  Palace  .... 

.       56 

Silk  <>'  the  Kine 

.      64 

In  the   Heart  of  the  Woods 

.      84 

Song  of  Hanrahan  the  Red 

.      87 

Love's  Rosary 

.      90 

Pirates 

.      92 

Sherwood        .... 

.      97 

Statesmen        

.     103 

Blackberries 

.     107 

The  Woman-soul 

.     109 

The  Old  Sceptic 

.     113 

A  Night  at  St.  Helena 

.     118 

xii  CONTENTS 

PAOK 

Earth-bound 150 

Song 155 

The  Song  of  Re-birth 157 

Amour  du  Crepuscule 161 

Old  Japan i63 

Haunted  in  Old  Japan 169 

The  Symbolist 173 

Christ  Crucified 175 

Pastiche 1'' 

Art I80 

De  Profundis 181 

The  Rally I85 

The  Answer l8^ 

Sea  Foam 191 


POEMS 


THE  PASSING  OF  SUMMER 

(an  ode) 

Now,  like  a  pageant  of  the  Golden  Year, 

In  rich  memorial  pomp  the  hours  go  by, 
With  rose-embroidered  flags  unfurled 
And  tasselled  bugles  calling  through  the  world; 

'  Wake,  for  your  hope  draws  near ! 
Wake,  for  in  each  soft  porch  of  azure  sky, 
Seen  through  each  arch  of  pale  green  leaves, 

the  Gate 
Of  Eden  swings  apart  for  Summer's   royal 
state.' 

Ah,  when  the  Spirit  of  the  moving  scene 

Has  entered  in,  the  splendour  will  be  spent ! 
The  flutes  will  cease,  the  Gates  will  close ! 
Only  the  scattered  crimson  of  the  rose, 


2  THE  PASSING  OF  SUMMER 

The  wild-wood's  hapless  queen 
Dis-kingdomed,  will  declare  the  way  he  went; 
And,  in  a  little  while,  her  court  will  go, 
Pass  like  a  cloud  and  leave  no  trace  on  earth 
below. 

Tell  us  no  more  of  Autumn,  the  slow  gold 
Of  fruitage  ripening  in  a  world's  decay, 
The  falling  leaves,  the  moist  rich  breath 
Of   woodlands   crumbling   through  a  gorgeous 
death 
To  glut  the  cancerous  mould ! 
Give  us  the  flash  and  scent  of  keen-edged  may 
Where  wastes  that  bear  no  harvest  yield  their 

bloom, 
Rude  crofts  of  flowering  nettle,  bents  of  yellow 
broom. 

The  very  reeds  and  sedges  of  the  fen 

Open  their  hearts  and  blossom  to  the  sky ! 


THE  PASSING   OF  SUMMER  3 

The  wild  thyme  on  the  mountain's  knees 
Unrolls  its  purple  market  to  the  bees ! 

Unharvested  of  men 
The  Traveller's  Joy  can  only  smile  and  die ! 
Joy,  joy  alone  the  throbbing  white-throats 

bring, 
Joy  to  themselves  and  heaven ;  they  were  but 
born  to  sing. 

And  see,  between  the  northern-scented  pines, 
The    whole    sweet    summer   sharpens    to    a 
glow ! 
See,  as  the  well-spring  plashes  cool 
Over  a  shadowy  green  fern-fretted  pool 

The  mystic  sunbeam  shines 
For  one  mad  moment  on  a  breast  of  snow, 
A  warm  white  shoulder,  and  a  glowing  arm 
Up-flung,    where  some  swift  Undine  sinks  in 
shy  alarm. 


4  THE  PASSING   OF  SUMMER 

And  if  she  were  not  all  a  dream,  and  lent 

Life  for  a  little  to  your  own  desire, 
Oh,  lover  in  the  hawthorn  lane, 
Dream   not   you   hold   her,  or   you  dream   in 
vain! 
The  violet,  spray-besprent 
When  from  that  plunge  the  rainbows  flashed 
like  fire, 
Will  scarce  more  swiftly  lose  its  happy  dew 
Than  eyes  which  Undine  haunts  will  cease  to 
shine  on  you. 

What  though  the  throstle  pours  his  heart  away, 
A  happy  spendthrift  of  uncounted  gold, 

Swinging  upon  the  blossomed  briar 

With  soft  throat  lifted  in  a  wild  desire 
To  make  the  world  his  may, 

Ever  the  pageant  through  the  Gates  is  rolled 
Further  away :  in  vain  the  rich  notes  throng 


THE  PASSING  OF  SUMMER  5 

Flooding   the   mellow   noon   with   rapturous 
waves  of  song. 

The  feathery  meadows,  like  a  lilac  sea, 

Knee-deep,    with    honeyed    clover    red    and 
white, 
Roll  billowing;  the  crisp  clouds  pass, 
Trailing  their  soft  blue  shadows  o'er  the  grass; 

The  sky-lark,  mad  with  glee, 
Quivers,  up,  up,  to  lose  himself  in  light ; 
And,  through  the  forest,  like  a  fairy  dream 
Through  some  dark  mind,  the  ferns  in  branch- 
ing beauty  stream. 

Enough  of  joy !  A  little  respite  lend, 

Summer,  fair  god  that  hast  so  little  heed 
Of  these  that  serve  thee  but  to  die, 
Mere  trappings  of  thy  tragic  pageantry ! 
Show  us  the  end,  the  end ! 


6  THE  PASSING   OF  SUMMER 

We  too,  with  human  hearts  that  break   and 

bleed, 
March  to  the  night  that  rounds  their  fleeting 

hour, 
And  feel  we,  too,  perchance  but  serve  some 

loftier  Power. 

Oh,  that   our  hearts  might   pass   away   with 
thee, 
Burning  and  pierced  and  full  of  thy  sweet 
pain; 
Burst  through  the  Gates  with  thy  swift  soul, 
Hunt     thy    most     white     perfection     to    the 
goal, 
Nor  wait,  once  more  to  see 
Thy  chalked  lilies  rotting  in  the  rain, 
Thy  ragged  yellowing  banners  idly  hung 
In  woods  that  have  forgotten  all  the  songs  we 
sung. 


THE  PASSING   OF  SUMMER  7 

Peace!  Like  a  pageant  of  the  Golden  Year, 

In  rich  memorial  pomp  the  noon  sweeps  by, 
With  rose-embroidered  flags  unfurled 
And  tasselled  bugles  calling  through  the  world, 

'  Wake,  for  your  hope  draws  near! 
Wake,  for  in  each  soft  porch  of  azure  sky, 
Seen  through  each  arch  of  pale  green  leaves,  the 

Gate 
Of  Eden  swings  apart  for  Summer's  royal  state.' 

Not  wait !  Forgive,  forgive  that  feeble  cry 

Of  blinded  passion  all  unworthy  thee ! 
For  here  the  spirit  of  man  may  claim 
A  loftier  vision  and  a  nobler  aim 
Than  e'er  was  born  to  die : 
Man  only,  of  earth,  throned  on  Eternity, 
From  his  own  sure  abiding-place  can  mark 
How  earth's  great  golden  dreams  go  past  into 
the  dark ! 


HEINE'S   DREAM 

In  dreams  my  false  love  comes  to  me, 

In  dreams,  in  dreams  by  night; 
But  her  kiss  is  a  yearning  agony, 

Her  face  is  wrung  and  white. 

I  feel  the  cold  and  quivering  mouth 

Cleave  as  in  long  past  years; 
But  oh,  the  suffering  and  the  drouth, 

And  the  salt  strange  tears ! 

Come  no  more,  come  no  more, 

Often  I  wake  and  moan, 
While  the  heart  of   the  sea,  on   the   distant 
shore 

Breaks  in  the  dark,  alone. 

8 


HEINE'S  DUE  AM 

Why  wilt  thou  tear  the  deep  old  wound 

Open  in  sleep  anew, 
Oh  lips  that  I  have  kissed  and  found 

So  sweet  and  so  untrue  ? 

Nay  come,  love,  come  in  dreams  to  me, 

I  turn  and  weep  again; 
Thy  far-off  world  misuseth  thee ! 

Thou  art  in  pain,  in  pain ! 


THE  VENUS  OF  MILO 
i 
Backward  she  leans,  as  when  the  rose  unblown 
Slides  white  from  its  warm  sheath  some  morn 
in  May ! 
Under  the  sloping  waist,  aslant,  her  zone 

Clings  as  it  slips  in  tender  disarray; 
One  knee,  out-thrust  a  little,  keeps  it  so 
Lingering  ere  it  fall ;  her  lovely  face 
Gazes  as  o'er  her  own  Eternity ! 
Those  armless  radiant  shoulders,  long  ago 
Perchance  held  arms  out  wide  with  yearning 
grace 
For  Adon  by  the  blue  Sicilian  sea. 

ii 

No;  thou  eternal  fount  of  these  poor  gleams, 

Bright  axle-star  of  the  wheeling  temporal  skies, 
10 


TUE  VENUS  OF  MILO  11 

Daughter   of   blood   and   foam   and   deathless 
dreams, 
Mother  of  flying  Love  that  never  dies, 
To  thee,  the  topmost  and  consummate  flower, 
The  last  harmonic  height,  our  dull  desires 
And  our  tired  souls  in  dreary  discord  climb; 
The  flesh  forgets  its  pale  and  wandering  fires ; 
We  gaze  through  heaven  as  from  an  ivory 
tower 
Shining  upon  the  last  dark  shores  of  Time. 

in 

White  culmination  of  the  dreams  of  earth, 
Thy  splendour  beacons  to  a  loftier  goal, 

Where,  slipping  earthward  from  the  great  new 
birth, 
The  shadowy  senses  leave  the  essential  soul ! 

Oh,  naked  loveliness,  not  yet  revealed, 

A  moment  hence  that  falling  robe  will  show 


12  THE   VENUS   OF  MILO 

No  prophecy  like  this,  this  great  new  dawn, 
The  bare  bright  breasts,  each  like  a  soft  white 
shield, 
And  the  firm  body  like  a  slope  of  snow 
Out  of  the  slipping  dream-stuff  half  with- 
drawn. 


THE  SCULPTOR 

This  is  my  statue :  cold  and  white 
It  stands  and  takes  the  morning  light ! 

The  world  may  flout  my  hopes  and  fears; 

Yet  was  my  life's  work  washed  with  tears 
Of  blood  when  this  poor  hand  last  night 

Finished  the  pain  of  years. 

Speak  for  me,  patient  lips  of  stone, 
Blind  eyes  my  lips  have  rested  on 
So  often  when  the  o'er-weary  brain 
Would  grope  to  human  love  again 
And  found  this  grave  cold  mask  alone, 
And  the  tears  fell  like  rain. 

Ay ;  is  this  all  ?    Is  this  the  brow 
I  fondled,  never  wondering  how 

13 


14  THE  SCULPTOR 

It  lived  —  the  face  of  pain  and  bliss 
That  through  the  marble  met  my  kiss  ? 
No,  though  the  whole  world  praise  it  now, 
Let  no  man  dream  it  is ! 

They  blame :  they  cannot  blame  aright 
Who  never  knew  what  infinite 

Deep  loss  must  shame  me  most  of  all ! 

They  praise :  like  earth  their  praises  fall 
Into  a  tomb.     The  hour  of  light 

Is  flown  beyond  recall. 

Yet  have  I  seen,  yet  have  I  known, 
And  oh,  not  tombed  in  cold  white  stone 

The  dream  I  lose  on  earth  below ; 

And  I  shall  come  with  face  aglow 
And  find  and  claim  it  for  my  own 

Before  God's  throne,  I  know. 


VENUS  DISROBING  FOR  THE  BATH 
Over  the  firm  young  bosom's  polished  peaks 

The  thin  white  robe  slips  dimly  as  a  dream 

Slowly  dissolving  in  the  sun's  first  beam  : 
Far  off  the  sad  sea  sighs  and  vainly  seeks 
The  abandoned  shell  that  bore  her  to  the  Greeks 

When  first  she  slumbered   on   the   sea-blue 
stream, 

And  in  the  dawn's  first  faint  wild  golden  gleam 
The  white  doves  woke  her  with  their  soft  red 
beaks. 

From  breast  to  sunny  thigh  the  light  silk  slips 
On  every  rose-white  curve  and  rounded  slope 
Pausing ;  and  now  it  lies  around  her  feet 
In  tiny  clouds :  now  timidly  she  dips 

One  foot;    the  warm  wave,  shivering  at  her 
sweet, 
Kisses  it  with  a  murmur  of  wild  hope. 

15 


THE  SWIMMERS'   RACE 

i 
Between  the  clover  and  the  trembling  sea 

They  stand  upon  the  golden-shadowed  shore 
In  naked  boyish  beauty,  a  strenuous  three, 
Hearing  the  breakers'  deep  Olympic  roar ; 
Three  young  athletes  poised  on  a  forward  limb, 
Mirrored  like  marble  in  the  smooth  wet  sand, 
Three  statues  moulded  by  Praxiteles : 
The  blue  horizon  rim 
Recedes,  recedes  upon  a  lovelier  land 

And  England  melts  into  the  skies  of  Greece. 
ii 
The  dome  of  heaven  is  like  one  drop  of  dew, 

Quivering  and  clear  and  cloudless  but  for  one 
Crisp  bouldered  Alpine  range  that  blinds  the 
blue 

16 


THE  SWIMMERS"   RACE  17 

With  snowy  gorges  glittering  to  the  sun : 
Forward  the  runners   lean,  with  out-stretched 
hand 
Waiting  the  word  —  ah,  how  the  light  relieves 
The  silken  rippling  muscles  as  they  start 
Spurning  the  yellow  sand, 
Then  skimming  lightlier  till  the  goal  receives 
The  winner,  head   thrown  back  and  lips 
apart. 

in 

Now  at  the  sea-marge  on  the  sand  they  lie 

At  rest  for  a  moment,  panting  as  they  breathe, 
And  gazing  upward  at  the  unbounded  sky 
While    the   sand   nestles   round    them    from 
beneath ; 
And  in  their  hands  they  gather  up  the  gold 
And  through  their  fingers  let  it  lazily  stream 
Over   them,  dusking  all   their   limbs'   fair 
white, 


18  THE  SWIMMERS'   RACE 

Blotting  their  shape  and  mould, 
Till,  mixed  into  the  distant  gazer's  dream 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  they  seem  to  sink 
from  sight. 

rv 
But  one,  in  seeming  petulance,  oppressed 
With  heat  has  cast  his  brown  young  body 
free: 
With  arms  behind  his  head  and  heaving  breast 

He  lies  and  gazes  at  the  cool  bright  sea ; 
So  young  Leander  might  when  in  the  noon 
He  panted  for  the  starry  eyes  of  eve 
And  whispered  o'er  the  waste  of  wander- 
ing  waves, 
'Hero,  bid  night  come  soon!' 
Nor  knew  the  nymphs  were  waiting  to  receive 
And  kiss  his  pale  limbs  in  their  cold  sea- 
caves. 


THE  SWIMMERS'   RACE  19 

V 

Now  to  their  feet  they  leap  and,  with  a  shout, 
Plunge  through  the  glittering  breakers  with- 
out fear, 
Breast  the  green-arching  billows,  and  still  out, 

As  if  each  dreamed  the  arms  of  Hero  near ; 
Now  like  three  sunbeams  on  an  emerald  crest, 
Now  like  three  foam  flakes  melting  out  of 
sight, 
They  are  blent  with  all  the  glory  of  all  the 
sea; 
One  with  the  golden  West; 
Merged  in  a  myriad  waves  of  mystic  light 
As  life  is  lost  in  immortality. 


FORTY  SINGING  SEAMEN 

"In  our  lande  be  Beeres  and  Lyons  of  dyvers 
colours  as  ye  redd,  grene,  black  and  white.  And  in 
our  land  be  also  unicornes  and  these  Unicornes 
slee  many  Lyons.  ...  Also  there  dare  no  man 
make  a  lye  in  our  lande,  for  if  he  dyde  he  sholde 
incontynent  be  sleyn." 

—  Mediceval  Epistle  of  Pope  Prestcr  John. 

i 
Across  the  seas  of  Wonderland  to  Mogadore  we 
plodded, 
Forty  singing  seamen  in  an  old  black  barque, 
And  we  landed  in  the  twilight  where  a  Poly- 
phemus nodded 
With  his  battered  moon-eye  winking  red  and 
yellow  through  the  dark  ! 

For  his  eye  was  growing  mellow, 
20 


FORTY  SINGING   SEAMEN  21 

Rich  and  ripe  and  red  and  yellow, 
As  was  time,  since  old  Ulysses  made  him 
bellow  in  the  dark ! 
Oho.  —  Since  Ulysses  bunged  his  eye  up  with  a 
pine-torch  in  the  dark  ! 

ii 
Were  they  mountains  in  the  gloaming  or  the 
giant's  ugly  shoulders 
Just  beneath   the   rolling   eye-ball,  with   its 
bleared  and  vinous  glow, 
Red  and  yellow  o'er  the  purple  of  the  pines 
among  the  boulders 
And  the  shaggy  horror  brooding  on  the  sullen 
slopes  below, 
Were  they  pines  among  the  boulders 
Or  the  hair  upon  his  shoulders  ? 
We  were  only  simple  seamen,  so  of  course  we 
didn't  know. 


22  FORTY  SINGING   SEAMEN 

Gho.  —  We  were  simple  singing  seamen,  so  of 
course  we  couldn't  know. 

ra 

But  we  crossed  a  plain  of  poppies,  and  we  came 
upon  a  fountain 
Not  of  water,  but  of  jewels,  like  a  spray  of 
leaping  fire; 
And  behind  it,  in  an  emerald  glade,  beneath 
a  golden  mountain 
There  stood  a  crystal  palace,  for  a  sailor  to 
admire ; 
For  a  troop  of  ghosts  came  round  us, 
Which  with  leaves  of  bay  they  crowned 
us, 
Then  with  grog  they  well-nigh  drowned  us,  to 

the  depth  of  our  desire ! 
Cho.  —  And  'twas  very  friendly  of  them,  as  a 
sailor  can  admire ! 


FORTY  SINGING  SEAMEN  23 

IV 

There  was  music  all  about  us,  we  were  growing 
quite  forgetful 
We  were  only  singing  seamen  from  the  dirt  of 
London-town, 
Though  the  nectar  that  we  swallowed  seemed  to 
vanish  half  regretful 
As  if  we  wasn't  good  enough  to  take  such 
vittles  down, 
When  we  saw  a  sudden  figure, 
Tall  and  black  as  any  nigger, 
Like  the  devil  —  only  bigger  —  drawing  near 
us  with  a  frown ! 
Cho.  —  Like  the  devil  —  but  much  bigger  —  and 
he  wore  a  golden  crown ! 

v 

And  'what's  all  this?'   he  growls  at  us!    With 
dignity  we  chaunted, 


24  FORTY  SINGING   SEAMEN 

'Forty  singing  seamen,  sir,  as  won't  be  put 
upon ! ' 
'What?    Englishmen?'    he   cries/ Well,  if   ye 
don't  mind  being  haunted, 
Faith,   you're  welcome   to  my  palace;    I'm 
the  famous  Prester  John ! 
Will  ye  walk  into  my  palace? 
I  don't  bear  'ee  any  malice ! 
One  and  all  ye  shall  be  welcome  in  the  halls 
of  Prester  John  ! ' 
Cho.  —  So  we  walked  into  the  palace  and  the 
halls  of  Prester  John ! 

VI 

Now  the  door  was  one  great  diamond  and  the 

hall  a  hollow  ruby  — 
Big  as  Beachy  Head,  my  lads,  nay  bigger  by  a 

half! 
And  I  sees  the  mate  wi'  mouth  agape,  a-staring 

like  a  booby 


FORTY  SINGING   SEAMEN  25 

And  the  skipper  close  behind  him,  with  his 
tongue  out  like  a  calf ! 
Now  the  way  to  take  it  rightly 
Was  to  walk  along  politely 
Just  as  if  you  didn't  notice  —  so  I  couldn't 
help  but  laugh ! 
Cho.  —  For  they  both  forgot  their  manners  and 
the  crew  was  bound  to  laugh ! 

VII 

But  he  took  us  through  his  palace  and,  my 
lads,  as  I'm  a  sinner, 
We  walked  into  an  opal  like  a  sunset-coloured 
cloud  — 
'My  dining  room,'  he  says,  and,  quick  as  light 
we  saw  a  dinner 
Spread  before  us  by  the  fingers  of  a  hidden 
fairy  crowd; 
And  the  skipper,  swaying  gently 


26  FORTY  SINGING  SEAMEN 

After  dinner,  murmurs  faintly, 
1 1  looks  to-wards  you,  Prester  John,  you've 
done  us  very  proud ! ' 
Oho.  —  And  we  drank  his  health  with  honours, 
for  he  done  us  very  proud ! 

VIII 

Then  he  walks  us  to  his  garden  where  we  sees  a 
feathered  demon 
Very  splendid  and  important  on  a  sort  of 
spicy  tree ! 
'That's  the  Phoenix,'  whispers  Prester,  'which 
all  eddicated  seamen 
Knows  the  only  one  existent,  and  he's  waiting 
for  to  flee ! 
When  his  hundred  years  expire 
Then  he'll  set  hisself  a-fire 
And  another  from  his  ashes  rise  most  beautiful 
to  see ! ' 


FORTY  SINGING  SEAMEN  27 

Cho.  —  With  wings  of  rose  and  emerald  most 
beautiful  to  see ! 


IX 

Then  he  says,  '  In  yonder  forest  there's  a  little 
silver  river 
And  whosoever  drinks  of  it,  his  youth  shall 
never  die ! 
The  centuries  go  by,  but  Prester  John  endures 
for  ever 
With  his  music  in  the  mountains  and  his  magic 
on  the  sky ! 
While  your  hearts  are  growing  colder, 
While  your  world  is  growing  older, 
There's  a  magic   in  the  distance,  where  the 
sealine  meets  the  sky.' 
Cho.  —  It  shall  call  to  singing  seamen  till  the 
fount  o'  song  is  dry ! 


28  FORTY  SINGING   SEAMEN 

X 

So  we  thought  we'd  up  and  seek  it,  but  that 
forest  fair  defied  us  — 
First  a  crimson  leopard  laughs  at  us  most 
horrible  to  see, 
Then  a  sea-green  lion  came  and  sniffed  and 
licked  his  chops  and  eyed  us, 
While  a  red  and  yellow  unicorn  was  dancing 
round  a  tree ! 
We  was  trying  to  look  thinner, 
Which  was  hard,  because  our  dinner 
Must  ha'  made  us  very  tempting  to  a  cat  o' 
high  degree ! 
Oho.  —  Must  ha'  made  us  very  tempting  to  the 
whole  menarjeree ! 

XI 

So  we  scuttled  from  that  forest  and  across  the 
poppy-meadows 


FORTY  SINGING    SEAMEN  29 

Where  the  awful  shaggy  horror  brooded  o'er 
us  in  the  dark  ! 
And  we  pushes  out  from  shore  again  a-jumping 
at  our  shadows 
And  pulls  away  most  joyful  to  the  old  black 
barque ! 
And  home  again  we  plodded 
While  the  Polyphemus  nodded 
With  his  battered  moon-eye  winking  red  and 
yellow  through  the  dark. 
Gho.  —  Oh,    the   moon   above    the   mountains, 
red  and  yellow  through  the  dark ! 

XII 

Across  the  seas  of  Wonderland  to  London-town 

we  blundered, 
Forty  singing  seamen  as  was  puzzled  for  to 

know 
If  the  visions  that  we  saw  was  caused  by  — 

here  again  we  pondered  — 


30  FORTY  SINGING  SEAMEN 

A  tipple  in  a  vision  forty  thousand  years  ago. 
Could  the  grog  we  dreamt  we  swallowed 
Make  us  dream  of  all  that  followed? 
We  were  only  simple  seamen,  so  of  course  we 
didn't  know ! 
Oho.  —  We  were  simple  singing  seamen,  so  of 
course  we  could  not  know ! 


THE  BARREL-ORGAN 

There's  a  barrel-organ  carolling  across  a  golden 
street 
In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low  ; 
And  the  music's  not  immortal;   but  the  world 
has  made  it  sweet 
And  fulfilled  it  with  the  sunset  glow ; 
And  it  pulses  through  the  pleasures  of  the  City 
and  the  pain 
That  surround  the  singing  organ  like  a  large 
eternal  light; 
And  they've  given  it  a  glory  and  a  part  to  play 
again 
In  the  Symphony  that  rules  the  day  and  night. 

And  now  it's  marching  onward   through   the 
realms  of  old  romance, 

31 


32  THE  BARREL-ORGAN 

And  trolling  out  a  fond  familiar  tune, 
And  now  it's  roaring  cannon  down  to  fight  the 
King  of  France, 
And  now  it's  prattling  softly  to  the  moon, 
And  all  around  the  organ  there's  a  sea  without 
a  shore 
Of  human  joys  and  wonders  and  regrets; 
To  remember  and  to  recompense  the  music  ever- 
more 
For  what  the  cold  machinery  forgets.  .  .  . 

Yes;  as  the  music  changes, 

Like  a  prismatic  glass, 
It  takes  the  light  and  ranges 

Through  all  the  moods  that  pass; 
Dissects  the  common  carnival 

Of  passions  and  regrets, 
And  gives  the  world  a  glimpse  of  all 

The  colours  it  forgets. 


THE  BARREL-ORGAN  33 

And  there  La  Traviata  sighs 

Another  sadder  song; 
And  there  II  Trovatore  cries 

A  tale  of  deeper  wrong; 
And  bolder  knights  to  battle  go 

With  sword  and  shield  and  lance, 
Than  ever  here  on  earth  below 

Have  whirled  into  —  a  dance !  — 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in 
lilac-time ; 
Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from 
London !) 
And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in 
summer's  wonderland; 
Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from 
London !) 

The  cherry-trees  are  seas  of  bloom  and  soft  per- 
fume and  sweet  perfume, 


34  THE  BARREL-ORGAN 

The  cherry-trees  are  seas  of  bloom  (and  oh,  so 

near  to  London !) 
And  there  they  say,  when  dawn  is  high  and  all 

the  world's  a  blaze  of  sky 
The  cuckoo,  though  he's  very  shy,  will  sing  a 

song  for  London. 

The  nightingale  is  rather  rare  and  yet  they  say 
you'll  hear  him  there 
At  Kew,  at  Kew  in  lilac-time  (and  oh,  so  near 
to  London !) 
The  linnet  and  the  throstle,  too,  and  after  dark 
the  long  halloo 
And  golden-eyed  tu-whit,  tu-whoo  of  owls  that 
ogle  London. 

For  Noah  hardly  knew  a  bird  of  any  kind  that 
isn't  heard 


THE  BARREL-ORGAN  35 

At  Kew,  at  Kew  in  lilac-time  (and  oh,  so  near 

to  London !) 
And  when  the  rose  begins  to  pout  and  all  the 

chestnut  spires  are  out 
You'll  hear   the  rest  without  a  doubt,   all 

chorussing  for  London :  — 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in 
lilac-time; 
Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  {it  isn't  far  from 
London !) 
And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in 
summer's  wonderland; 
Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from 
London  /) 

And  then  the  troubadour  begins  to  thrill  the 
golden  street, 
In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 


36  THE  BAEEEL-OEGAN 

And  in  all  the  gaudy  busses  there  are  scores  of 

weary  feet 
Marking  time,  sweet  time,  with  a  dull  mechanic 

beat, 
And  a  thousand  hearts  are  plunging  to  a  love 

they'll  never  meet, 
Through  the  meadows  of  the  sunset,  through  the 

poppies  and  the  wheat, 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

Verdi,  Verdi,  when  you  wrote  II  Trovatore  did 
you  dream 
Of  the  City  when  the  sun  sinks  low, 

Of  the  organ  and  the  monkey  and  the  many- 
coloured  stream 

On  the  Piccadilly  pavement,  of  the  myriad  eyes 
that  seem 

To  be  litten  for  a  moment  with  a  wild  Italian 
gleam 


THE  BARREL-ORGAN  37 

As  A  che  la  morte  parodies  the  world's  eternal 
theme 
And  pulses  with  the  sunset-glow  ? 

There's  a  thief,  perhaps,  that  listens  with  a  face 

of  frozen  stone 
In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low  ; 
There's  a  portly  man  of  business  with  a  balance 

of  his  own, 
There's  a  clerk  and  there's  a  butcher  of  a  soft 

reposeful  tone, 
And  they're  all  of  them  returning  to  the  heavens 

they  have  known : 
They  are  crammed  and  jammed  in  busses  and  — 

they're  each  of  them  alone 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  a  very  modish  woman  and  her  smile  is 
very  bland 
In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 


38  THE  BARREL-ORGAN 

And  her  hansom  jingles  onward,  but  her  little 
jewelled  hand 

Is  clenched  a  little  tighter  and  she  cannot  under- 
stand 

What  she  wants  or  why  she  wanders  to  that  un- 
discovered land, 

For  the  parties  there  are  not  at  all  the  sort  of 
thing  she  planned, 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  an  Oxford  man  that  listens  and  his  heart 

is  crying  out 
In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 
For  the  barge,  the  eight,  the  Isis,  and  the  coach's 

whoop  and  shout, 
For  the  minute-gun,  the  counting  and  the  long 

dishevelled  rout, 
For  the  howl  along  the  tow-path  and  a  fate  that's 

still  in  doubt, 


THE  BARREL-ORGAN  39 

For  a  roughened  oar  to  handle  and  a  race  to 
think  about 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  a  labourer  that  listens  to  the  voices  of 

the  dead 
In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 
And  his  hand  begins  to  tremble  and  his  face  is 

rather  red 
As  he  sees  a  loafer  watching  him  and  —  there  he 

turns  his  head 
And  stares  into  the  sunset  where  his  April  love  is 

fled, 
For  he  hears  her  softly  singing  and  his  lonely  soul 

is  led 
Through  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  an  old  and  haggard  demi-rep,  it's  ringing 
in  her  ears, 
In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 


40  THE  BARREL-ORGAN 

With  the  wild  and  empty  sorrow  of  the  love  that 

blights  and  sears, 
Oh,  and  if  she  hurries  onward,  then  be  sure,  be 

sure  she  hears, 
Hears  and  bears  the  bitter  burden  of  the  unfor- 

gotten  years, 
And  her  laugh's  a  little  harsher  and  her  eyes  are 

brimmed  with  tears 
For  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  a  barrel-organ  carolling  across  a  golden 

street 
In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 
Though  the  music's  only  Verdi  there's  a  world  to 

make  it  sweet 
Just  as  yonder  yellow  sunset  where  the  earth  and 

heaven  meet 
Mellows  all  the  sooty  City!    Hark,  a  hundred 

thousand  feet 


THE  BARREL-ORGAN  41 

Are  marching  on  to  glory  through  the  poppies 
and  the  wheat 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

So  it's  Jeremiah,  Jeremiah, 

What  have  you  to  say 
When  you  meet  the  garland  girls 

Tripping  on  their  way  ? 

All  around  my  gala  hat 

I  wear  a  wreath  of  roses 
(A  long  and  lonely  year  it  is 

I've  waited  for  the  May !) 
If  any  one  should  ask  you, 

The  reason  why  I  wear  it  is  — 
My  own  love,  my  true  love  is  coming  home 
to-day. 

And  it's  buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  the  lady 
(It's  lilac-time  in  London;    it's  lilac-time  in 
London !) 


42  TEE  BARREL-ORGAN 

Buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  the  lady; 
While  the  sky  burns  blue  above : 

On  the  other  side  the  street  you'll  find  it  shady 
(It's  lilac-time  in  London;    it's  lilac-time  in 
London !) 

But  buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  the  lady, 
And  tell  her  she's  your  own  true  love. 

There's  a  barrel-organ  carolling  across  a  golden 
street 
In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  glittering  and  slow ; 
And  the  music's  not  immortal;   but  the  world 

has  made  it  sweet 
And  enriched  it  with  the  harmonies  that  make 

a  song  complete 
In  the  deeper  heavens  of  music  where  the  night 
and  morning  meet, 
As  it  dies  into  the  sunset  glow ; 


THE  BARREL-ORGAN  43 

And  it  pulses  through  the  pleasures  of  the  City 
and  the  pain 
That  surround  the  singing  organ  like  a  large 
eternal  light, 
And  they've  given  it  a  glory  and  a  part  to  play 
again 
In  the  Symphony  that  rules  the  day  and  night. 

And  there,  as  the  music  changes, 

The  song  runs  round  again ; 
Once  more  it  turns  and  ranges 

Through  all  its  joy  and  pain: 
Dissects  the  common  carnival 

Of  passions  and  regrets ; 
And  the  wheeling  world  remembers  all 

The  wheeling  song  forgets. 

Once  more  La  Traviata  sighs 
Another  sadder  song : 


44  THE  BARREL-ORGAN 

Once  more  II  Trovatore  cries 

A  tale  of  deeper  wrong ; 
Once  more  the  knights  to  battle  go 

With  sword  and  shield  and  lance 
Till  once,  once  more,  the  shattered  foe 

Has  whirled  into  —  a  dance ! 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in 
lilac-time; 
Gome  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from 
London !) 
And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  Love  in 
summer's  wonderland, 
Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from 
London  /) 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN 

Part  One 

i 

The  wind  was  a  torrent  of  darkness  among  the 

gusty  trees, 
The  moon  was  a  ghostly  galleon  tossed  upon 

cloudy  seas, 
The  road  was  a  ribbon  of  moonlight  over  the 

purple  moor, 
And  the  highwayman  came  riding  — 

Riding  —  riding  — 
The  highwayman  came  riding,  up  to  the  old 

inn-door. 

ii 
He'd  a  French  cocked-hat  on  his  forehead,  a 

bunch  of  lace  at  his  chin, 
A  coat  of  the  claret  velvet,  and  breeches  of 

brown  doe-skin; 

45 


46  TEE  EIGEWATMAN 

They  fitted  with  never  a  wrinkle :  his  boots  were 

up  to  the  thigh ! 
And  he  rode  with  a  jewelled  twinkle, 
His  pistol  butts  a-twinkle, 
His  rapier  hilt  a-twinkle,  under  the  jewelled  sky. 

in 
Over  the  cobbles  he  clattered  and  clashed  in  the 

dark  inn-yard, 
And  he  tapped  with  his  whip  on  the  shutters, 

but  all  was  locked  and  barred; 
He  whistled  a  tune  to  the  window,  and  who 

should  be  waiting  there 
But  the  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 

Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 
Plaiting  a  dark  red  love-knot  into  her  long  black 

hair. 

IV 

And  dark  in  the  dark  old  inn-yard  a  stable- 
wicket  creaked 


THE  niGHWAYMAN  47 

Where  Tim  the  ostler  listened;    his  face  was 

white  and  peaked  ; 
His  eyes  were  hollows  of  madness,  his  hair  like 

mouldy  hay, 
But  he  loved  the  landlord's  daughter, 

The  landlord's  red-lipped  daughter, 
Dumb  as  a  dog  he  listened,  and  he  heard  the 

robber  say  — 

v 
'One  kiss,  my  bonny  sweetheart,  I'm  after  a 

prize  to-night, 
But  I  shall  be  back  with  the  yellow  gold  before 

the  morning  light; 
Yet,  if  they  press  me  sharply,  and  harry  me 

through  the  day, 
Then  look  for  me  by  moonlight, 

Watch  for  me  by  moonlight, 
I'll  come  to  thee  by  moonlight,   though  hell 

should  bar  the  way.' 


48  THE  HIGHWAYMAN 

VI 

He  rose  upright  in  the  stirrups;  he  scarce  could 

reach  her  hand, 
But  she  loosened  her  hair  i'  the  casement !  His 

face  burnt  like  a  brand 
As  the  black  cascade  of  perfume  came  tumbling 

over  his  breast ; 
And  he  kissed  its  waves  in  the  moonlight, 

(Oh,  sweet  black  waves  in  the  moon- 
light !) 
Then  he  tugged  at  his  rein  in  the  moonlight,  and 

galloped  away  to  the  West. 

Part  Two 

i 

He  did  not  come  in  the  dawning;    he  did  not 

come  at  noon; 
And  out  o'  the  tawny  sunset,  before  the  rise  o* 
the  moon, 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  49 

When  the  road  was  a  gipsy's  ribbon,  looping 

the  purple  moor, 
A  red-coat  troop  came  marching  — 
Marching  —  marching  — 
King  George's  men  came  marching,  up  to  the  old 

inn-door. 


n 

They  said  no  word  to  the  landlord,  they  drank 

his  ale  instead, 
But  they  gagged  his  daughter  and  bound  her  to 

the  foot  of  her  narrow  bed ; 
Two   of   them    knelt   at   her    casement,    with 

muskets  at  their  side ! 
There  was  death  at  every  window; 

And  hell  at  one  dark  window; 
For  Bess  could  see,  through  her  casement,  the 

road  that  he  would  ride. 


50  THE  HIGHWAYMAN 

III 

They  had  tied  her  up  to  attention,  with  many  a 

sniggering  jest; 
They  had  bound  a  musket  beside  her,  with  the 

barrel  beneath  her  breast ! 
1  Now  keep  good  watch ! '   and  they  kissed  her. 

She  heard  the  dead  man  say  — 
Look  for  me  by  moonlight; 

Watch  for  me  by  moonlight; 
I'll  come  to  thee  by  moonlight,  though  hell  should 

bar  the  way ! 

IV 

She  twisted  her  hands  behind  her;   but  all  the 

knots  held  good ! 
She  writhed  her  hands  till  her  fingers  were  wet 

with  sweat  or  blood ! 
They  stretched  and  strained  in  the  darkness, 

and  the  hours  crawled  by  like  years, 
Till,  now,  on  the  stroke  of  midnight, 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  51 

Cold,  on  the  stroke  of  midnight, 
The  tip  of  one  finger  touched  it !    The  trigger  at 
least  was  hers ! 

v 

The  tip  of  one  finger  touched  it;  she  strove  no 

more  for  the  rest ! 
Up,  she  stood  up  to  attention,  with  the  barrel 

beneath  her  breast, 
She  would  not  risk  their  hearing :  she  would  not 

strive  again; 
For  the  road  lay  bare  in  the  moonlight ; 
Blank  and  bare  in  the  moonlight ; 
And  the  blood  of  her  veins  in  the  moonlight 

throbbed  to  her  love's  refrain. 

VI 

Tlot-tlot;    tlot-tlot!    Had  they  heard  it?    The 
horse-hoofs  ringing  clear ; 


52  THE  HIGHWAYMAN 

Tlot-tlot,  tlot-tlot,  in  the  distance?    Were  they 

deaf  that  they  did  not  hear  ? 
Down  the  ribbon  of  moonlight,  over  the  brow  of 

the  hill, 
The  highwayman  came  riding, 

Riding,  riding ! 
The  red-coats  looked   to  their  priming!    She 

stood  up,  straight  and  still ! 

VII 

Tlot-tlot,  in  the  frosty  silence !     Tlot-tlot,  in  the 

echoing  night ! 
Nearer  he  came  and  nearer !    Her  face  was  like 

a  light ! 
Her  eyes  grew  wide  for  a  moment ;  she  drew  one 

last  deep  breath, 
Then  her  finger  moved  in  the  moonlight, 

Her  musket  shattered  the  moonlight, 
Shattered   her    breast   in    the   moonlight   and 

warned  him  —  with  her  death. 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  53 

VIII 

He  turned ;  he  spurred  to  the  Westward ;  he  did 

not  know  who  stood 
Bowed,  with  her  head  o'er  the  musket,  drenched 

with  her  own  red  blood  ! 
Not   till   the   dawn   he   heard   it,   and   slowly 

blanched  to  hear 
How  Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 

The  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 
Had  watched  for  her  love  in  the  moonlight,  and 

died  in  the  darkness  there. 

IX 

Back,  he  spurred  like  a  madman,  shrieking  a 

curse  to  the  sky, 
With  the  white  road  smoking  behind  him,  and 

his  rapier  brandished  high  ! 
Blood-red  were  his  spurs  i'  the  golden  noon; 

wine-red  was  his  velvet  coat; 


54  THE  HIGHWAYMAN 

When  they  shot  him  down  on  the  highway, 

Down  like  a  dog  on  the  highway, 

And  he  lay  in  his  blood  on  the  highway,  with 

the  bunch  of  lace  at  his  throat. 
******* 

And  still  of  a  winter's  night,  they  say,  when  the 
wind  is  in  the  trees, 

When  the  moon  is  a  ghostly  galleon  tossed  upon 
cloudy  seas, 

When  the  road  is  a  ribbon  of  moonlight  over  the 
purple  moor, 

A  highwayman  comes  riding  — 
Riding  —  riding  — 

A  highwayman  comes  riding,  up  to  the  old  inn- 
door. 

XI 

Over  the  cobbles  he  clatters  and  clangs  in  the  dark 

inn-yard; 
And  he  taps  with  his  whip  on  the  shutters,  but  all  is 

locked  and  barred; 


THE  HIGHWAYMAN  55 

He  whistles  a  tune  to  the  window,  and  who  should 

be  waiting  there 
But  the  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter, 

Bess,  the  landlord's  daughter, 
Plaiting  a  dark  red  love-knot  into  her  long  black 

hair. 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 

Come  to  the  haunted  palace  of  my  dreams, 
My  crumbling  palace  by  the  eternal  sea, 
Which,  like  a  childless  mother,  still  must  croon 
Her  ancient  sorrows  to  the  cold  white  moon, 

Or,  ebbing  tremulously, 
With  one  pale  arm,  where  the  long  foam-fringe 
gleams, 
Will  gather  her  rustling  garments,  for  a  space 
Of  muffled  weeping,  round  her  dim  white  face. 

A  princess  dwelt  here  once :  long,  long  ago 

This  tower  rose  in  the  sunset  like  a  prayer; 

And,  through  the  witchery  of  that  casement, 

rolled 

In  one  soft  cataract  of  faery  gold 

Her  wonder-woven  hair; 
66 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE  51 

Her  face  leaned  out  and  took  the  sacred  glow 
Of  evening,  like  the  star  that  listened,  high 
Above  the  gold  clouds  of  the  western  sky. 

Was  there  no  prince  behind  her  in  the  gloom, 

No  crimson  shadow  of  his  rich  array  ? 
Her  face  leaned  down  to  me :  I  saw  the  tears 
Bleed  through  her  eyes  with  the  slow  pain  of 
years, 
And  her  mouth  yearned  to  say  — 
'  Friend,  is  there  any  message,  from  the  tomb 
Where  love  lies  buried?'  But  she  only  said  — 
1  Oh,  friend,  canst  thou  not  save  me  from  my 
dead? 

'  Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  soul  in  pain  ? 
Or  hast  thou  then  no  comfortable  word  ? 
Is  there  no  faith  in  thee  wherewith  to  atone 
For  his  unfaith  who  left  me  here  alone, 
Heart-sick  with  hope  deferred; 


58  THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 

Oh,  since  my  love  will  never  come  again, 
Bring'st  thou  no  respite  through  the  desolate 

years, 
Respite  from  these  most  unavailing  tears?' 

Then  saw  I,  and  mine  own  tears  made  response, 
Her  woman's  heart  come  breaking  through  her 
eyes; 
And,   as    I    stood    beneath   the    tower's  grey 

wall, 
She  let  the  soft  waves  of  her  deep  hair  fall 

Like  flowers  from  Paradise 
Over  my  fevered  face :  then  all  at  once 
Pity  was  passion ;  and  like  a  sea  of  bliss 
Those  waves  rolled  o'er  me  drowning  for  her 
kiss. 

Seven  years  we  dwelt  together  in  that  tower, 
Seven  years  in  that  old  palace  by  the  sea, 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE  59 

And  sitting  at  that  casement,  side  by  side, 
She  told  me  all  her  pain :  how  love  had  died 

Now  for  all  else  but  me ; 
Yet  how  she  had  loved  that  other :  like  a  flower 
Her  red  lips  parted  and  with  low  sweet  moan 
She  pressed  their  tender  suffering  on  mine 
own. 

And  always  with  vague  eyes  she  gazed  afar, 
Out  through  the  casement  o'er  the  changing 
tide; 
And  slowly  was  my  heart's  hope  brought  to 

nought 
That  some  day  I   should  win  each  wandering 
thought 
And  make  her  my  soul's  bride : 
Still,  still  she  gazed  across  the  cold  sea-bar; 
Ay ;  with  her  hand  in  mine,  still,  still  and  pale, 
Waited  and  watched  for  the  unreturning  sail. 


60  THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 

And  I,  too,  watched  and  waited  as  the  years 

Rolled  on ;  and  slowly  was  I  brought  to  feel 
How  on  my  lips  she  met  her  lover's  kiss, 
How  my  heart's  pulse  begat  an  alien  bliss; 

And  cold  and  hard  as  steel 
For  me  those  eyes  were,  though  their  tender 
tears 
Were  salt  upon  my  cheek;    and  then  one 

night 
I  saw  a  sail  come  through  the  pale  moonlight. 

And  like  an  alien  ghost  I  stole  away, 
And  like  a  breathing  lover  he  returned ; 

And  in  the  woods  I  dwelt,  or  sometimes  crept 

Out  in  the  grey  dawn  while  the  lovers  slept 
And  the  great  sea-tides  yearned 

Against  the  iron  shores ;  and  faint  and  grey 
The  tower  and  the  shut  casement  rose  above: 
And  on  the  earth  I  sobbed  out  all  my  love. 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE  61 

At  last,  one  royal  rose-hung  night  in  June, 

When  the  warm  air  like  purple  Hippocrene 
Brimmed    the  dim  valley  and    sparkled    into 

stars, 
I  saw  them  cross  the  foam-lit  sandy  bars 
And  dark  pools,  glimmering  green, 
To  bathe  beneath  the  honey-coloured  moon: 
I  saw  them  swim  out  from  that  summer  shore, 
Kissed  by  the  sea,  but  they  returned  no  more. 

And  into  the  dark  palace,  like  a  dream 

Remembered  after  long  oblivious  years, 
Through  the  strange  open  doors  I  crept  and  saw 
As  some  poor  pagan  might,  with  reverent  awe, 

And  deep  adoring  tears, 
The  moonlight   through  that  painted  window 
stream 
Over  the  soft  wave  of  their  vacant  bed ; 
There  sank  I  on  my  knees  and  bowed  my  head. 


62  THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 

For  as  a  father  by  a  cradle  bows, 

Remembering  two  dead  children  of  his  own, 
I  knelt ;  and  by  the  cry  of  the  great  deep 
Their  love  seemed  like  a  murmuring  in  their 
sleep, 
A  little  fevered  moan, 
A  little  tossing  of  childish  arms  that  shows 
How  dreams  go  by !    'If  I  were  God/  I  wept, 
'I  would  have  pity  on  children  while  they 
slept.' 
******* 
The  days,  the  months,  the  years  drift  over  me; 

This  is  my  habitation  till  I  die : 
Nothing  is  changed ;  they  left  that  open  book 
Beside  the  window.     Did  he  sit  and  look 

Up  at  her  face  as  I 
Looked  while  she  read  it,  and  the  enchanted  sea 
With  rich  eternities  of  love  unknown 
Fulfilled  the  low  sweet  music  of  her  tone  ? 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE  63 

So  did  he  listen,  looking  in  her  face  ? 
And  did  she  ever  pause,  remembering  so 

The  heart  that  bore  the  whole  weight  of  her  pain 

Until  her  own  heart's  love  returned  again? 
In  the  still  evening  glow 

I  sit  and  listen  in  this  quiet  place, 
And  only  hear  —  like  notes  of  phantom  birds — 
Their  perished  kisses  and  little  broken  words. 

Come  to  the  haunted  palace  of  my  dreams, 
My  crumbling  palace  by  the  eternal  sea, 
Which,  like  a  childless  mother,  still  must  croon 
Her  ancient  sorrows  to  the  cold  white  moon, 

Or,  ebbing  tremulously, 
With  one  pale  arm,  where  the  long  foam- fringe 
gleams, 
Will  gather  her  rustling  garments,  for  a  space 
Of  muffled  weeping,  round  her  dim  white  face. 


SILK  0'  THE  KINE 


A   TALE   OF  THE    ISLES 


ElLlDH,1  Eilidh,  Silk  o'  the  Kine; 
Happy  is  he  whose  hand  shall  twine 
Thy  warm  wild  beauty  of  shadow  and  shine. 

Like  the  glossy  waves  of  a  golden  sea, 
Eilidh,  thy  deep  hair  covers  thee; 
Oh,  Eilidh,  Eilidh,  a  deep,  deep  sea, 

A  golden  sea, 

A  deep,  deep  sea. 


Eilidh,  pronounced  Isle-y 
64 


SILK  O'    THE  KINE  65 

II 

Heather-drowsy,  heather-drowsy,  lapped  in  the 

sunlight  together, 
Eilidh  and  Isla  lay  one  day  in  the  golden  summer 

weather. 
For  the  silken  sea  of  her  golden  hair  and  its 

billows  of  shadow  and  shine 
Had  Sorch  the  Singer  named  her,  Eilidh  —  Silk 

o'  the  Kine  ; 
And  the  laughing  lovers  were  cradled  in  clouds 

of  purple  and  gold, 
As  round  their  couch  in  the  heather  it  rippled 

and  glistened  and  rolled. 
And  the  honey-sweet  air  was  wild  with  the  warble 

of  birds  and  the  whisper  of  rills  ; 
And  the  wind  blew  soft  and  sweet  with  the  scent 

of  the  bloom  of  a  thousand  hills; 
And  a  myriad  twinkling  smiles  awoke  in  the 

dreamy  blue  of  the  bay, 

9 


66  SILK  O'   TEE  KINE 

For,  far  and  far  above  them,  Eilidh  and  Isla 

lay; 
And  her  hand  lay  warm  in  his  clasping  hand; 
two  young  lovers  were  they : 
Two  young  lovers  were  they. 

in 

Many  a  floating  butterfly  and  yellow-banded  bee, 

Wondering  and  blundering  across  the  blissful 
hours, 

Paused  o'er  Eilidh's  fragrant  hair  as  it  tumbled 
soft  and  free, 

Dreaming  and  gleaming,  a  glossy  golden  sea 

That  rolled  a  happy  kiss-deep  among  the  heather- 
flowers. 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  skies  that  arch 
the  sunny  South ; 

The  gipsy  sun  had  kissed  her  cheek  and  a  rose 
had  kissed  her  mouth ; 


SILK  O'   THE  KINE  67 

Her  breast  was  like  a  blossoming  wave  that 

curves  in  a  sea  of  bliss, 
As  she  leaned  her  golden  head  far  back  and 

turned  her  closing  eyes 
Brimmed  with  the  joy  of  life  and  love  to  the 

cloudless  azure  skies, 
And  the  rosy  golden  apple  of  her  throat  to  his 

following  kiss. 
And  she  laughed  the  low  sweet  laugh  of  love 

and  thought  of  the  crimson  fray 
That  raged  on  the  soft  blue  waters  beyond  the 

dreaming  bay; 
She  laughed  the  low  sweet  laugh  of  love  that 

kept  her  lover  bound 
Safe  to  her  breast  as  round  his  breast  her  white 

arms  clung  and  wound. 
She  had  prayed  him  and  stayed  him,  with  the 

sword  at  his  side; 


68  SILK  O'    THE  KINE 

And  her  laugh  had  conquered  all  the  calls  of 

glory  and  pride : 
For  her  own  love  and  her  true  love  she  held  him 

safely  there; 
It  was  only  one  away  to  them,  but  all  the  world 

to  her. 
She  had  pleaded;  she  would  die  with  him ;  they 

were  so  young  to  die ; 
She  had  pleaded;   she  had  conquered,  with  one 

last  low  broken  cry : 
So  now  she  leaned  her  head  far  back  with  the 

perfect  laugh  of  love ; 
And  the  blossoms  murmured  round  her  and  the 

skies  grew  dim  above  : 
Her  arm  was  round  her  true  love's  neck  and  her 

hand  was  in  his  hand ; 
And  her  heart  against  his  heart  that  day  in  the 

silent  summer-land. 
And  the  sun  sank  down  to  the  waiting  smiles 

that  wrinkled  the  blue  of  the  bay ; 


SILK  O'    THE  KINE  69 

And  a  shadow  covered  the  warm  sweet  hill  where 

Eilidh  and  Isla  lay  ; 
But  her  hand  lay  warm  in  his  clasping  hand: 

two  young  lovers  were  they : 
Two  young  lovers  were  they 

IV 

The  sun  sank  down  and  the  darkness  covered 
the  torn  red  ships, 

As  over  the  dark  blue  sea  they  ploughed  trium- 
phantly home ; 

And  the  warriors  lay  and  panted  with  the  battle- 
surf  on  their  lips ; 

And  the  moon  slunk  out  above  them  in  a  menac- 
ing cloud  of  eclipse ; 

And  a  mutter  of  distant  thunder  crept  o'er  the 
wandering  foam. 

Then  the  King  stood  up  in  the  blood-stained 
prow  of  the  Raven  and  said, 


70  SILK  O'   THE  KINE 

"  Who  saved  my  life  in  the  battle  ?    He  shall  take 

to-night  for  his  own 
The  Flower  of  the  island  women,  a  maiden,  a 

queen  to  his  bed ; 
With  a  sword,  if  they  will,  between  them;   but 

he  shall  not  he  alone. 
Who  saved  my  life  in  the  battle?"    And  the 

warriors  with  one  breath 
Answered:  " Cormic  Achanna ;  he  saved  the  life 

of  the  King!" 
When  he  slipped  in  the  bloody  grapple  and 

screamed  at  the  feet  of  death 
Achanna  stood  over  the  body  and  cleared  a 

terrible  ring, 
Wheeling  his  battle-axe  round  him  and  shouting 

his  own  death-song ; 
For  he  deemed  that  fight  was  his  last;  but  the 

red  blood  splashed  in  his  face 
And  the  laughing  madness  was  on  him:   there 

was  no  hell  so  strong 


SILK  O'    THE  EINE  71 

As  the  joy  of  the  last  great  battle  to  the  gloom 
of  his  ancient  race. 

"  Who  is  the  Flower  of  our  women  ?"    And  Sorch 
the  Singer  rose 
And  touched  his  harp  and  sang  as  the  ships 
went  over  the  sea : 
"  Every  star  in  the  deep  dim  skies  and  every  wind 
that  blows 
Has  heard  the  name  of  Eilidh  and  the  song  it 
made  for  me ; 
Oh,  fair  as  the  fairest  rose  on  earth  her  flower- 
sweet  face  shall  be, 
This  night  of  nights,  oh  star  of  the  battle,  this 
night  of  nights  for  thee; 

This  night  of  nights  for  thee." 

v 

Eilidh,  Eilidh,  Silk  o'  the  Kine, 

Happy  is  he  whose  hand  shall  twine 

Thy  warm  wild  beauty  of  shadow  and  shine. 


72  SILK  O'   THE  KINE 

Eilidh,  thy  deep  hair  covers  thee, 
Like  the  glossy  waves  of  a  golden  sea; 
Oh,  Eilidh,  Eilidh,  the  sea  is  deep 
That  holds  thy  gold  in  its  emerald  keep. 

This  was  the  song  that  Sorch  the  Singer 
Made  one  day  as  he  saw  her  linger 

Bathing  in  the  dazzled  sea 

And  looking  backward  wistfully 

Over  its  infinite  mystery ; 
With  the  cool  white  foam  in  the  noonday  heat 
Murmuring  sweetness  over  the  sweet 
Golden  light  of  her  golden  feet, 

And  her  deep  hair  shimmering  down  to  her 

knee. 

For  once  in  the  warm  blue  summer  weather 
He  lay  with  his  harp  in  the  deep  sweet  heather, 
And  watched  her  white  limbs  glimmer  and 
gleam 


SILK  O'    THE  EINE  73 

Out,  far  out,  through  the  sea's  eternal  dream, 
Swimming,  with  one    bright    arm  like  a   wild 

sunbeam 
Flashing  and  cleaving  the  warm  wild  emerald  tide 
That  trembled  and  murmured  and  sobbed  at  her 

naked  side, 
And  folded  and  moulded  her  beauty  in  sun-soft 

gold, 
And  swooned  at  her  sweetness,  and  swiftly  revived 

into  cold 
Clear  currents  of  emerald  rapture,  again  and  again 
Scattered  a  glory  of  kisses  around  her  that  broke 

into  rainbows  and  rain, 
As  over  and  under  her  blossoming  breasts  they 

rippled  and  glistened  and  rolled. 

VI 

Eilidh,  Eilidh,  Silk  o'  the  Kine, 
Happy  is  he  ichose  hand  shall  twine 
Thy  glossy  beauty  of  shadow  and  shine. 


74  SILK  O'    THE  KINE 

Eilidh,  thy  deep  hair  covers  thee 

Like  the  warm  wild  waves  of  a  golden  sea; 

Oh,  Eilidh,  Eilidh,  a  deep,  deep  sea, 

A  golden  sea, 

A  deep,  deep  sea. 

The  King  stood  up  in  the  crimson  glow  that 

gloomed  in  the  feasting  hall, 
"Achanna,  to-night  our  island  Rose,  our  Rose 

of  the  World  is  thine :" 
And  the  smoky  red  of  the  rolling  fire  danced  on 

the  painted  wall ; 
As  she  came  through  the  midst  of  them,  trem- 
bling, Eilidh,  Silk  o'  the  Kine : 
She  came  —  oh,  white  as  a  star  when  the  moon 

is  all  in  eclipse, 
Through  the  broad-flung  oak-rough  limbs  of  the 

warriors  waiting  the  feast, 
With  the  blackening  blood  on  their  hands  and  a 

mutter  of  song  on  their  lips, 


SILK  O'    THE  KINE  75 

And  the  hell  still  hot  in  their  eyes,  though  the 
heavy  panting  had  ceased. 

And  the  King  laughed  out:  "Oh,  Eilidh,  go  to 

Achanna  thy  lord, 
Gladden  his  heart  with  thy  beauty,  take  his  hand 

in  thine  own ; 
To-night  if  he  will  you  shall  lay  between  you  a 

two-edged  sword, 
But  when  the  drinking  is  over  he  shall  not  lie 

alone." 

And  she  stared  in  the  face  of  the  King  as  if  in  a 

dream  she  had  heard 
The  voice  of  Isla  her  lover  vainly  trying  to  speak ; 
And  her  red  lips  curved  and  struggled  like  the 

wings  of  a  wounded  bird,  — 
"Oh  King,  I  am  plighted,"  she  whispered,  and 

the  rose  awoke  in  her  cheek. 


76  SILK  O'    THE  KINE 

"Plighted!"    he  answered  her  roughly,  with  a 

thunder-cloud  on  his  brow, 
For  what  was  a  maiden  troth  to  him  but  a  kiss 

of  the  flying  hours  ? 
"Plighted,  Eilidh,  Silk  o'  the  Kine  —  by  God! 

you  are  plighted  now 
By  more  than  the  babble  of  lovers  asleep  on  a 

bank  of  flowers." 

"Plighted,"  she  answered  slowly.     "Oh  King, 

my  love  is  my  own, 
And  none  can  take  it  from  me,  not  life,  nor  death, 

nor  doom; 
I  am  plighted,  oh  King,"  her  low  voice  broke  in  a 

slow  deep  moan, 
"I  am  plighted,  oh  King,  plighted,  by  the  child 

that  moves  in  my  womb." 

Then  the  King  arose  in  his  fury,  and  he  saw  that 
her  girdle  was  wried,  — 


SILK  O'    TUE  KINE  77 

"  By  God  !  you  shall  die  together  or  tell  me  your 

lover's  name : 
His  child  shall   be   born  in  your  anguish  and 

clutch  at  your  writhen  side ; 
Mother  and  child,  you  shall  burn  together,  one 

torch  in  one  shrieking  flame. 
Tell  me  the  name  of  the  man!"     The  King's 

voice  rang  through  the  hall ; 
Then  all  was  hushed,  and  never  a  whisper  broke 

through  the  gloom 
From  the  hard  red  lips  of  Eilidh  where  she  stood 

before  them  all, 
Proud  and  peerless  and  silent,  awaiting  the  word 

of  doom. 
"Tell  me  the  name  of  the  man!"   and  the  great 

doors  opened  wide, 
And  through  the  sprawling  limbs  of  the  feasters 

a  light  foot  sped ; 
And  suddenly  Eilidh  laughed  out  loud,  for  Isla 

was  there  at  her  side, 


78  SILK  O'   THE  KINS 

And  her  hand  lay  warm  in  his  clasping  hand; 

and  she  lifted  her  beautiful  head 
High  in  the  triumph  of  love  that  knows  there  is 

nothing  to  fear, 
Now,  in  life  or  death,  in  earth  or  heaven  or  hell, 
When  the  coil  of  the  world  is  conquered  and  the 

very  God  draws  near, 
And  touches  the  eyes  of  the  soul  with  light,  and 

whispers  "All  is  well." 
And  all  was  well  with  Isla ;  for  now  in  the  world's 

despite 
The  ache  of  remorse  was  over,  and  all  the  glory 

and  pride 
Of  the  earthly  battle  had  vanished  in  the  dawn 

of  the  boundless  night, 
And  he  stood  with  his  love  in  the  shadow  of  death 

as  a  bridegroom  with  a  bride. 
Then  all  the  crimson  glow  of  the  hall  was  hushed 

once  more, 


SILK  O'    THE  KINE  79 

And  Eilidh  looked  into  Isla's  face  as  they  waited 

the  word  of  death, 
And  only  they  heard,  far  off,  on  the  desolate  rock- 
bound  shore, 
The  sea  like  a  peaceful  sleeper  drawing  a  slow 

deep  breath ; 
Till  as  a  tiger  snarls  with  his  foot  on  the  bleeding 

prey 
Slowly  the  savage  lips  of  the  King  curled  back 

and  hissed : 
"To-night  you  are  ready  to  die;   but  to-night 

you  shall  go  your  way, 
And  dream  of  the  death  that  is  ready  to  feed 

on  the  mouth  you  have  kissed. 
To-night  you  shall  go  to  your  lover  and  feed  your 

love  to  the  fill : 
You  shall  play  with  his  bleeding  heart  at  dawn 

before  he  burns  at  the  stake ; 
Then  Gloom  Achanna  shall  take  you  for  a  night 

or  a  moon,  if  he  will; 


80  SILK  O'    THE  KINE 

Go!"    and  the  hall  was  hushed  once  more  till 

they  heard  the  great  sea  break 
Like  a  distant  host  of  ransomed  souls  rushing 

away  into  peace, 
Rushing  away  from  the  body  of  death  in  the  last 

supreme  release, 
As  Eilidh  and  Isla,  hand  in  hand,  passed  through 

the  silent  hall, 
Hand  in  hand  through  the  gaping  doors  and  into 

the  starry  light. 
But  Gloom  Achanna  envied  Isla  the  love  of  that 

last  brief  night, 
For  he  knew  by  the  glory  of  Eilidh's  eyes  that 

love  had  conquered  all. 

VI 

Never  a  boat  could  leave  that  isle  for  its  watchful 

midnight  guard ; 
But,  when  with  isles  of  rose  and  green  the  golden 

east  was  barred., 


SILK  O'    THE  EIXE  81 

A  trembling  herdsman  came  to  the  King  at  the 

dreadful  break  of  day, 
And  said  that,  passing  the  hut  in  the  heather 

where  Eilidh  and  Isla  lay, 
He  thought  to  see  them  clasped  and  kissed  in  the 

waves  of  her  golden  hair, 
But  the  door  was  wide  to  the  wind  and  the  sea; 

and  only  death  was  there. 
For  their  couch  of  tawny  fawn-skins  was  smoking 

wet  and  red ; 
And   Gloom   Achanna  was  huddled   across  it, 

haggard  and  warm  and  dead, 
With  the  coverlet  of  the  lovers  for  his  reeking 

purple  pall, 
And  the  dagger  of  Eilidh  deep  in  his  heart,  and 

the  red  sun  over  all. 

Then  Sorch  the  Singer  came  to  the  King  as  he 
stared  in  empty  amaze 

G 


82  SILK  O'   THE  KINE 

And  said,  "  Oh  King,  as  I  watched  the  sun  break 

through  the  first  gold  haze, 
I  saw  those  lovers  pass  to  the  shore,  hand  in 

clasping  hand ; 
And  they  cast  their  raiment  from  them  there  on 

the  golden  sand ; 
And  they  waded  up  to  their  golden  knees  in  the 

clear  green  waves,  and  there, 
Clothed  with  the  sun  and  the  warm  soft  wind 

and  Eilidh's  golden  hair, 
Isla  broke  his  sword  and  watched  it  heavily 

shimmering  down 
Through  the  lustrous  emerald  gleam  to  the  sea- 
flower  forests  of  dim  deep  brown. 
And  they  kissed  each  other,  once,  on  the  mouth, 

and  then,  as  I  stood  in  the  heather, 
I  saw  them,  Eilidh  and  Isla,  they  swam  out  in  the 

sunlight  together : 
Out,  far  out,   through  the  golden  glory  that 

dazzled  the  green  of  the  bay : 


SILK  Oy   THE  KINE  83 

Two  strong  swimmers  were  they,  oh  King,  that 
swam  out  in  the  sunlight  together; 

Whether  they  went  to  life  or  death,  two  strong 
swimmers  were  they : 

Two  strong  swimmers  were  they." 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  WOODS 

Heart  of  me,  Heart  of  me,  Heart  of  me,  beating, 

beating  afar, 
In  the  glamour  and  gloom  of  the  night,  in  the 

light  of  the  rosy  star, 
In  the  cold  sweet  voice  of  the  bird,  in  the  sigh 

of  the  flower-soft  sea, 
Sure  the  Heart  of  the  woods  is  the  Heart  of 

Eternity, 
Ah!   and  the  passionate  heart  it  is  of  you  and 

me. 

Love  of  me,  Love  of  me,  linking  the  world  and 

the  golden  moon, 
And  the  flowery  moths  that  flutter  through  the 

scented  heat  of  noon, 

84 


IN   THE  HEART  OF  THE    WOODS  85 

And  the  soul  of  man  with  beauty,  youth  with  the 

dreaming  night 
Of  stars  and  flowers  and  waters  and  breasts  of 

glimmering  white, 
And  streaming  hair  of  fragrant  dusk  and  flying 

limbs  of  lovely  light. 

Life  of  me,  Life  of  me,  shining  in  sun  and  cloud 

and  wind, 
In  the  dark  eyes  of  the  fawn  and  the  eyes  of  the 

hound  behind, 
In  the  leaves  that  lie  in  the  seed  unsown,  and  the 

dream  of  the  babe  unborn, 
I  feel  you  pulsing  like  flame  of  blood  through 

flower  and  root  and  thorn, 
I  feel  you  burning  the  boughs  of  night  to  kindle 

the  fires  of  morn. 

Soul  of  me,  Soul  of  me,  yearning  wherever  a 
laverock  sings 


86     IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE    WOODS 

Or  the  leafy  gloom  is  winnowed  by  the  whirr  oi 

linnets'  wings, 
Or  the  spray  of  the  foam-bow  rustles  in  the  white 

dawn  of  the  moon, 
And  mournful  billows  moan  aloud,  Come  soon, 

soon,  soon, 
Come  soon,  oh  Death,  with  the  heart  of  love  and  the 

secret  of  the  rune. 

Heart  of  me,  Heart  of  me,  Heart  of  me,  beating, 

beating  afar, 
In  the  green  gloom  of  the  night,  in  the  light  of 

the  rosy  star, 
In  the  cold  sweet  voice  of  the  bird,  in  the  sigh  of 

the  flower-soft  sea, 
Sure  the  Heart  of  the  woods  is  the  Heart  of  the 

world  and  the  Heart  of  Eternity, 
Ay,  and  the  passionate  Heart  it  is  of  you  and  me. 


SONG  OF  HANRAHAN  THE  RED 

Oh,  Death  will  never  find  us  in  the  heart  of  the 
wood, 
The  song  is  in  my  blood,  night  and  day ; 
We  will  pluck  a  scented  petal  from  the  Rose  upon 
the  Rood 
Where  Love  lies  bleeding  on  the  way ; 
We  will  listen  to  the  linnet  and  watch  the  waters 
leap, 
When  the  clouds  go  dreaming  by, 
And  under  the  wild  roses  and  the  stars  we  will 
sleep 
And  wander  on  together,  you  and  I. 

We  shall  understand  the  mystery  that  none  has 
understood, 

87 


88  SONG   OF  HANRAHAN  THE  RED 

We  shall  know  why  the  leafy  gloom  is  green; 
Oh,  Death  will  never  find  us  in  the  heart  of  the 
wood 
When  we  see  what  the  stars  have  seen ; 
We  have  heard  the  hidden  song  of  the  soft  dews 
falling 
At  the  end  of  the  last  dark  sky, 
Where  all  the  sorrows  of  the  world  are   call- 
ing, 
We  must  wander  on  together,  you  and  I. 

They  are  calling,  calling,  Away,  come  away, 

And  we  know  not  whence  they  call ; 
For  the  song  is  in  our  hearts,  we  hear  it  night 
and  day, 
As  the  deep  tides  rise  and  fall : 
Oh,  Death  will  never  find  us  in  the  heart  of  the 
wood, 
While  the  hours  and  the  years  roll  by ; 


SONG   OF  II  AN  RAH  AN   THE  RED  89 

We  have  heard  it,  we  have  heard  it,  but  we  have 
not  understood, 
We  must  wander  on  together,  you  and  I. 

The  wind  may  beat  upon  us,  the  rain  may  blind 
our  eyes, 
The  leaves  may  fall  beneath  the  winter's  wing ; 
But  we  shall  hear  the  music  of  the  dream  that 
never  dies ; 
And  we  shall  know  the  secret  of  the  spring; 
We  shall  know  how  all  the  blossoms  of  evil  and 
of  good 
Are  mingled  in  the  meadows  of  the  sky ; 
And  then  —  if  Death  can  find  us  in  the  heart  of 
the  wood, 
We  shall  wander  on  together,  you  and  I. 


LOVE'S  ROSARY 

All  day  I  tell  my  rosary 

For  now  my  love's  away : 
To-morrow  he  shall  come  to  me 

About  the  break  of  day ; 
A  rosary  of  twenty  hours, 

And  then  a  rose  of  May ; 
A  rosary  of  fettered  flowers, 

And  then  a  holy-day. 

All  day  I  tell  my  rosary, 

My  rosary  of  hours : 
And  here's  a  flower  of  memory, 

And  here's  a  hope  of  flowers, 
And  here's  an  hour  that  yearns  with  pain 

For  old  forgotten  years, 

90 


LOVE'S  ROSARY  91 

An  hour  of  loss,  an  hour  of  gain, 
And  then  a  shower  of  tears. 

All  clay  I  tell  my  rosary, 

Because  my  love's  away ; 
And  never  a  whisper  comes  to  me, 

And  never  a  word  to  say ; 
But,  if  it's  parting  more  endears, 

God  bring  him  back,  I  pray ; 
Or  my  heart  will  break  in  the  darkness 

Before  the  break  of  day. 

All  day  I  tell  my  rosary, 

My  rosary  of  hours, 
Until  an  hour  shall  bring  to  me 

The  hope  of  all  the  flowers.  .  .  ■ 
I  tell  my  rosary  of  hours, 

For  0,  my  love's  away; 
And  —  a  dream  may  bring  him  back  to  me 

About  the  break  of  day. 


PIRATES 

Come  to  me,  you  with   the  laughing  face,  in 

the  night  as  I  he 
Dreaming  of  days  that  are  dead  and  of  joys  gone 

by; 
Come  to  me,  comrade,  come  through  the  slow 

dropping  rain, 
Come  from  your  grave  in  the  darkness  and  let  us 

be  playmates  again. 

Let  us  be  boys  together  to-night,  and  pretend  as 

of  old 
We  are  pirates  at  rest  in  a  cave  among  huge 

heaps  of  gold, 
Red  Spanish  doubloons  and  great  pieces  of  eight, 

and  muskets  and  swords, 

92 


PIRATES  93 

And  a  smoky  red  camp-fire  to  glint,  you  know 
how,  on  our  ill-gotten  hoards. 

The  old  cave  in  the  fir-wood  that  slopes  down 
the  hills  to  the  sea 

Still  is  haunted,  perhaps,  by  young  pirates  as 
wicked  as  we : 

Though  the  fir  with  the  magpie's  big  mud-plas- 
tered nest  used  to  hide  it  so  well, 

And  the  boys  in  the  gang  had  to  swear  that  they 
never  would  tell. 

Ah,  that  tree ;  I  have  sat  in  its  boughs  and  looked 

seaward  for  hours; 
I  remember  the  creak  of  its  branches;  the  scent 

of  the  flowers 
That  climbed  round  the  mouth  of  the  cave:  it 

is  odd  I  recall 
Those  little  things  best,  that  I  scarcely  took  heed 

of  at  all. 


94  PIRATES 

I  remember  how  brightly  the  brass  on  the  butt 

of  my  spy-glass  gleamed 
As  I  climbed  through  the  purple  heather  and 

thyme  to  our  eyrie  and  dreamed ; 
I  remember  the  smooth  glossy  sun-burn  that 

darkened  our  faces  and  hands 
As  we  gazed  at  the  merchantmen  sailing  away 

to  those  wonderful  lands. 

I  remember  the  long  long  sigh  of  the  sea  as  we 

raced  in  the  sun, 
To  dry  ourselves  after  our  swimming;  and  how 

we  would  run 
With  a  cry  and  a  crash  through  the  foam  as  it 

creamed  on  the  shore, 
Then  back  to  bask  in  the  warm  dry  gold  of  the 

sand  once  more. 

Come  to  me ;  you  with  the  laughing  face ;  in  the 
gloom  as  I  lie 


PIRATES  95 

Dreaming  of  days  that  are  dead  and  of  joys  gone 

by; 

Let  us  be  boys  together  to-night  and  pretend  as 

of  old 
We  are  pirates  at  rest  in  a  cave  among  great 

heaps  of  gold. 

Come;   you  shall  be  chief:   we'll  not  quarrel: 

the  time  flies  so  fast : 
There  are  ships  to  be  grappled,  there's  blood  to 

be  shed,  ere  our  playtime  be  past : 
No;  perhaps  we  will  quarrel,  just  once,  or  it 

scarcely  will  seem 
So  like  the  old  days  that  have  flown  from  us 

both  like  a  dream. 

Still;   you  shall  be  chief  in  the  end;  and  then 

we'll  go  home 
To  the  hearth  and  the  tea  and  the  books  that  we 

loved :  ah,  but  come, 


96  PIRATES 

Come  to  me,  come  through  the  dark  and  the  slow- 
dropping  rain; 

Come,  old  friend,  come  from  your  grave  and  let 
us  be  playmates  again. 


SHERWOOD 

Sherwood  in  the  twilight,  is  Robin  Hood  awake  ? 

Grey  and  ghostly  shadows  are  gliding  through 
the  brake ; 

Shadows  of  the  dappled  deer,  dreaming  of  the 
morn, 

Dreaming  of  a  shadowy  man  that  winds  a  shad- 
owy horn. 

Robin  Hood  is  here  again :  all  his  merry  thieves 
Hear  a  ghostly  bugle-note  shivering  through  the 

leaves, 
Calling  as  he  used  to  call,  faint  and  far  away, 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of 

day. 

h  87 


98  SHERWOOD 

Merry,  merry  England  has  kissed  the  lips  of 

June: 
All  the  wings  of  fairyland  were  here  beneath  the 

moon; 
Like  a  flight  of  rose-leaves  fluttering  in  a  mist 
Of  opal  and  ruby  and  pearl  and  amethyst. 

Merry,  merry  England  is  waking  as  of  old, 

With  eyes  of  blither  hazel  and  hair  of  brighter 
gold: 

For  Robin  Hood  is  here  again  beneath  the  burst- 
ing spray 

In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of 
day. 

Love  is  in  the  greenwood  building  him  a  house 
Of  wild  rose  and  hawthorn  and  honeysuckle 

boughs : 
Love  is  in  the  greenwood:  dawn  is  in  the  skies; 


SHERWOOD  99 

And   Marian  is  waiting  with  a    glory  in    her 
eyes. 

Hark !    The  dazzled  laverock  climbs  the  golden 

steep : 
Marian  is  waiting :  is  Robin  Hood  asleep  ? 
Round  the  fairy  grass-rings  frolic  elf  and  fay, 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of 

day. 

Oberon,  Oberon,  rake  away  the  gold, 
Rake  away  the  red  leaves,  roll  away  the  mould, 
Rake  away  the  gold  leaves,  roll  away  the  red, 
And  wake  Will  Scarlett  from  his  leafy  forest  bed. 

Friar  Tuck  and  Little  John  are  riding  down 

together 
With  quarter-staff  and  drinking-can  and  grey 

goose- feather; 


100  SHERWOOD 

The  dead  are  coming  back  again ;  the  years  are 

rolled  away 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of 

day. 

Softly  over  Sherwood  the  south  wind  blows ; 
All  the  heart  of  England  hid  in  every  rose 
Hears  across  the  greenwood  the  sunny  whisper 

leap, 
Sherwood   in   the   red   dawn,   is  Robin   Hood 

asleep  ? 

Hark,  the  voice  of  England  wakes  him  as  of  old 
And,  shattering  the  silence  with  a  cry  of  brighter 

gold, 
Bugles  in  the  greenwood  echo  from  the  steep, 
Sherwood  in  the  red  dawn,  is  Robin  Hood  asleep  ? 

Where  the  deer  are  gliding  down  the  shadowy 
glen 


8HEBW00D  101 

All  across  the  glades  of  fern  he  calls  his  merry 

men ; 
Doublets  of  the  Lincoln  green  glancing  through 

the  May 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of 

day; 

Calls  them  and  they  answer :  from  aisles  of  oak 

and  ash 
Rings  the  Follow !  Follow!  and  the  boughs  begin 

to  crash ; 
The  ferns  begin  to  flutter  and  the  flowers  begin 

to  fly; 
And  through  the  crimson  dawning  the  robber 

band  goes  by. 

Robin!  Robin!  Robin!    All  his  merry  thieves 
Answer  as  the  bugle-note  shivers  through  the 
leaves : 


102  SHERWOOD 

Calling   as    he    used    to    call,    faint    and    far 

away, 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of 

day. 


STATESMEN 

Quieter  than  the  sun  is  he 
Whose  task  is  mightier  to  perform, 

And  needs  the  primal  majesty 
Of  strength  that  rules  the  storm. 

The  great  prophetic  heart  is  his, 
The  poet's  power  to  bless  and  blend 

Life  with  the  cosmic  harmonies 
That  roll  to  one  great  end. 

Ah,  yet  not  his  to  seek  or  roam 
The  undiscovered  and  sublime; 

But  how  to  bring  his  good  ship  home 
Across  the  seas  of  Time. 

103 


104  STATESMEN 

His  course  must  veer  with  every  wind, 
Yet  is  the  swiftest  and  the  best 

His  wisdom  of  the  sea  can  find ; 
And  God  will  add  the  rest. 

The  statesman  looks  not  where  the  wave 
Of  momentary  detail  swirled ; 

His  hope  is  deeper  than  the  grave 
And  wider  than  the  world. 

His  hands  upon  the  wheel  deny 
The  wild  demands  of  circumstance; 

His  eyes  are  on  the  distant  sky 
Beyond  the  clouds  of  chance : 

And  when,  still  beating  up  the  wind, 
He  slowly  brings  the  Ship  of  State 

Home,  though  the  people  chafe  to  find 
How  dark  it  is  and  late ; 


STATESMEN  105 

With  all  his  tacking  courses  run 
At  last  beyond  the  roaring  sea, 

Men  find  him  faithful  to  the  one 
Haven  where  they  would  be. 

Far  other  he  whose  words  are  free 
To  flatter  weakness  and  conform ; 

And  help  a  drunken  crew  to  flee 
Full  sail  before  the  storm ; 

He  scans  the  rainbow  in  the  wave 

And  dazzling  spray  around  him  hurled ; 

Their  light  will  last  him  till  his  grave 
Obliterates  his  world. 

His  hands  upon  the  wheel  reply 

To  every  call  of  circumstance ; 
He  chases  down  the  reeling  sky 

The  rushing  clouds  of  chance. 


106  STATESMEN 

He  spreads  before  the  boisterous  wind 
The  wild  white  wings  of  the  Ship  of  State; 

While  all  the  people  cheer  to  find 
The  sails  crash  and  innate. 

Before  the  uproarious  wind  they  run 

Out,  out  into  the  hungry  sea; 
How  fast !    And,  when  that  day  is  done, 

How  far,  0  God,  from  hope  and  Thee. 


BLACKBERRIES 

Out  of  the  sunny  field  they  passed 
And  sought  the  leafy  shade ; 

A  farmer's  boy  with  laughing  lips, 
A  barefoot  village  maid. 

Her  lips  were  blue  with  blackberries, 

Her  finger-tips  were  red ; 
And  "What  shall  take  the  stain  away 

This  day  at  all?"  she  said. 

He's  pulled  the  rose  from  out  his  coat, 

And  it  was  fully  blown ; 
He's  heard  the  song  the  linnet  sang, 

And  they  were  all  alone. 

107 


108  BLACKBERRIES 

It  was  a  white  rose  took  the  stain 

From  her  dainty  finger-tips ; 
But,  0,  it  was  a  redder  flower 
Grew  purple  at  her  lips. 


THE  WOMAN-SOUL 

They  stood  before  the  fiery  Gate, 

With  hearts  and  lips  afire, 
To  triumph  over  fear  and  fate 

For  the  dream  of  his  desire ; 
"0  love,"  he  said,  and  bowed  his  head 

To  meet  her  sacred  kiss, 
"This  is  the  hour  that  crowns  us,  earth 

And  heaven  were  made  for  this." 

And  she  looked  up  into  his  face, 
And  found  her  true  love  there : 

It  was  the  parting  of  the  ways, 
Unless  her  soul  could  dare 

Enter  the  dreadful  doors  where  none 
May  draw  this  quickening  breath 

109 


110  THE  WOMAN-SOUL 

Or  drink  the  glory  of  the  sun 
But  Love  and  Sin  and  Death. 

Enter  the  dreadful  doors  and  meet 

The  mockery  and  the  shame 
That  wrap  the  soul  from  head  to  feet 

In  a  winding-sheet  of  flame ! 
Yet  in  her  eyes  he  saw  his  own 

Undimmed  by  doubt  or  sin : 
"To  save  my  soul,"  she  heard  him  moan, 

"We  two  must  enter  in." 

Enter  the  dreadful  doors  and  dream 

The  world  well  lost  for  love ; 
Would  not  the  choral  angels  gleam 

Around,  beneath,  above  ? 
Her  blinded  eyelids  closed ;  her  head 

Bent  back  beneath  his  kiss : 
"If  love  is  on  my  side,"  she  said, 

"I  need  no  more  than  this. 


THE  WOMAN-SOUL  111 

"  Enter,  and  I  will  follow ;  lead ; 

I  know  thy  great  heart  well ; 
A  heart  to  beat  with  mine  and  bleed 

With  mine  in  heaven  or  hell ; 
Enter;"  and  lo,  his  whitening  face 

Looked  down,  "Nay,  love,  but  thou 
Lead  me  and  save  me  of  thy  grace, 

Or  sin  will  slay  me  now. 

"  Upward  and  on  the  woman-soul 

Shall  lead  this  baser  clay, 
Subdue  and  kindle  and  control"  .  .  . 

"Yes;  I  will  lead  the  way; 
You  know  not  why  your  strength  is  fled, 

And  I  so  glad  of  this ! 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart,"  she  said, 

"But  I  —  oh,  I  have  his. 

"  Look —  follow  me  —  for  I  will  lead; 
I  bear  thy  great  heart  well, 


112  THE    WOMAN-SOUL 

A  heart  to  beat  with  mine  and  bleed 

With  mine  in  heaven  or  hell," 
And  through  the  Gate  that,  gaunt  and  black, 

Swung  open  with  a  groan, 
Smiling,  she  passed;  the  man  shrunk  back; 

She  entered  in  —  alone. 


THE  OLD  SCEPTIC 

I  am  weary  of  disbelieving :  why  should  I  wound 
my  love 
To  pleasure  a  sophist's  pride  in  a  graven  image 
of  truth  ? 
I  will  go  back  to  my  home,  with  the  clouds  and 
the  stars  above, 
And  the  heaven  I  used  to  know,  and  the  God 
of  my  buried  youth. 

I  will  go  back  to  the  home  where  of  old  in  my 
boyish  pride 
I  pierced  my  father's  heart  with  a  murmur  of 
unbelief ; 
He  only  looked  in  my  face  as  I  spoke,  but  his 
mute  eyes  cried 
Night  after  night  in  my  dreams;  and  he  died 

in  grief,  in  grief. 

i  113 


114  THE  OLD   SCEPTIC 

Oh,  yes;  I  have  read  the  books,  the  books  that 
we  write  ourselves, 
Extolling  our  love  of  an  abstract  truth  and  our 
pride  of  debate : 
I  will  go  back  to  the  love  of  the  cotter  who  sings 
as  he  delves, 
To  that  childish  infinite  love  and  the  God 
above  fact  and  date. 

To  that  ignorant  infinite  God  who  colours  the 
meaningless  flowers, 
To  that  lawless  infinite  Poet  who  matches  the 
law  with  the  crime; 
To  the  weaver  who  covers  the  world  with  a  gar- 
ment of  wonderful  hours, 
And  holds  in  His  hand  like  threads  the  tales 
and  the  truths  of  time. 

Is  the  faith  of  the  cotter  so  simple  and  narrow  as 
this?    Ah,  well, 


THE  OLD   SCEPTIC  115 

It  is  hardly  so  narrow  as  yours  who  daub  and 
plaster  with  dyes 
The  shining  mirrors  of  heaven,  the  shadowy  mir- 
rors of  hell, 

And  blot  out  the  dark  deep  vision,  if  it  seemed 
to  be  framed  with  lies. 

No  faith  I  hurl  against  you,  no  fact  to  freeze  your 
sneers ; 
Only  the  doubt  you  taught  me  to  weld  in  the 
fires  of  youth 
Leaps  to  my  hand  like  the  flaming  sword  of  nine- 
teen hundred  years, 
The  sword  of  the  high  God's  answer,  0  Pilate, 
what  is  truth  ? 

Your  laughter  has  killed  more  hearts  than  ever 
were  pierced  with  swords, 
Ever  you  daub  new  mirrors  and  turn  the  old 
to  the  wall ; 


116  THE  OLD   SCEPTIC 

And  more  than  blood  is  lost  in  the  weary  battle 
of  words; 
For  creeds  are  many;    but  God  is  One,  and 
contains  them  all. 

Ah,  why  should  we  strive  or   cry?    Surely  the 
end  is  close ! 
Hold  by  your  little  truths :  deem  your  triumph 
complete ! 
But  nothing  is  true  or  false  in  the  infinite  heart 
of  the  rose ; 
And  the  earth  is  a  little  dust  that  clings  to  our 
travelling  feet. 

I  will  go  back  to  my  home  and  look  at  the  way- 
side flowers, 
And  hear  from  the  wayside  cabins  the  sweet 
old  hymns  again, 

Where  Christ  holds  out  His  arms  in  the  quiet 
evening  hours. 


THE  OLD   SCEPTIC  117 

And  the  light  of  the  chapel  porches  broods  on 
the  peaceful  lane. 

And  there  I  shall  hear  men  praying  the  deep  old 
foolish  prayers, 
And  there  I  shall  see,  once  more,  the  fond  old 
faith  confessed, 
And  the  strange  old  light  on  their  faces  who  hear 
as  a  blind  man  hears,  — 
Come  unto  Me,  ye  weary,  and  I  will  give  you 
rest. 

I  will  go  back  and  believe  in  the  deep  old  foolish 
tales, 
And  pray  the  sweet  old  prayers  that  I  learned 
at  my  mother's  knee, 
Where  the  Sabbath  tolls  its  peace  thro'   the 
breathless  mountain-vales, 
And  the  sunset's  evening  hymn  hallows  the 
listening  sea. 


A  NIGHT  AT  ST.  HELENA 

"It  wants  three  hours  to  midnight.     Do  you  hear 
The  sentries  drawing  closer  ?    At  this  time 
A  ghost  could  scarce  evade  their  vigilance : 
I  am  so  precious !    Why,  no  ship  can  pass 
This  island,  even  twenty  leagues  away, 
Without  discovery  from  some  signal-post  ; 
Whereat  one  of  your  pleasant  ships  of  war 
That  cruise  and  crouch  around  me  day  and  night 
Immediately  sets  out  and  shadows  her 
To  what  is  deemed  a  safer  distance.     Now, 
Would  it  not  seem  much  easier  if  you  dropped 
A  little  poison  in  my  medicine,  doctor  ? 
Or  do  you  take  me  for  the  Devil,  eh  ? 
You  see  those  floating  guards  are  not  enough ; 
But,  after  sunset,  every  fishing  boat 

118 


A   NIGIIT  AT  ST.   HELENA  119 

Is    under  watch   and    ward;   and    there    will 

stand 
Two  sentries  at  each  entrance  of  my  house ; 
A  subaltern's  guard  six  hundred  paces  off ; 
A  cordon  of  picquets  round  the  limits,  too ; 
A  picquet  at  every  possible  landing-place ; 
And  shadowy  sentinels  upon  the  cliffs 
At  quite  impossible  exits ;  for  you  know 
That  I  am  somewhat  bulky  nowadays; 
Why,  they  have  even  placed  a  sentinel 
On  every  goat-path  leading  to  the  sea ! 

This  is  the  kind  of  dream  that  harasses 
One's    nerves,   and    gives   one    cancer   in    the 
stomach. 

I  hardly  think  that  you  can  help  me  much 
Now;    you  had  better  leave  me.     I  may  sleep. 
Good  night." 


120  A  NIGHT  AT  ST.   HELENA 

And  the  physician  sadly  left 
The   doomed   Napoleon,    lying   with    clenched 

hands, 
Pallid  and  still  upon  his  bleak  white  couch 
Like  some  great  sculptured  king  upon  a  tomb. 
But  all   night  long  the   charge  and   recoil  of 

thought 
Beneath  that  aching  marble  brow  denied 
Sleep  to  the  dark  indomitable  soul. 
All  night  behind  the  quiet  sullen  face, 
Through  which  as  through  a  clay-cold  mask  of 

death 
Gazed  the  unconquered  proud  eternal  eyes, 
Vain  memory  maddening  into  hopeless  hope 
Fought  all  his  battles  over  once  again, 
With  all  he  might  have  done,  the  great  man's 

last 
Inheritance  of  helpless  power.     No  sound 
Escaped  the  hard  relentless  chiselled  lips. 


A  NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA  121 

His  heart  was  far  too  far  away  for  words 

Of  grief  or  scorn  to  bring  its  passion  back 

To  that  chill   chamber  of  death;    yet,   as  it 

chanced, 
First  in  the  dawn  of  dreams  a  careless  cloud 
Of  trivial  recollection  lightly  rose, 
And  almost  made  him  smile,  as  a  spoilt  child 
Smiles  in  remembrance  of  some  angry  spite 
Done  to  a  wooden  puppet's  battered  face. 
"Sir  Hudson  Lowe,"  began  the  silent  voice 
That  threshed  his  bitter  dreams  out  all  night 

long, 
"Sir  Hudson  Lowe,  who  is  Sir  Hudson  Lowe? 
Ah,  yes,  the  poor  apologetic  man 
Who  thinks  that  he  annoys  me,  or  that  I 
Am  much  incensed  with  him;    well,  we  must 

wear 
A.  name  for  our  vexation,  let  it  be 
Sir  Hudson  Lowe,  the  name  is  well  enough. 


122  A  NIGHT  AT  ST.   HELENA 

I  am  incensed  with  you,  Sir  Hudson  Lowe; 
Well,  no ;  I  do  not  need  apologies ; 
I  am  so  insolent,  you  think ;  but  you 
Will  need  apologies  when  you  are  dead, 
And  bald  professors  pick  your  bones  in  grim 
Historical  research,  Sir  Hudson  Lowe. 
Yes;  they  will  be  so  angry,  they  will  come 
Some  to  defend  you,  some  to  bid  you  stand 
On  your  defence,  for  nothing  more  than  this  — 
That  I  was  much  perturbed  and  never  liked 
Your  name  at  all :  indeed,  I  almost  fear 
That    I    have    crumpled    it    up   as   I   might 

crumple 
A  scrap  of  paper  at  Austerlitz,  and  quite 
Unconsciously ;  ah  me,  Sir  Hudson  Lowe, 
Will  you  disturb  your  country  in  your  grave  ? 
My  God,  I  think  that  all  I  need  is  rest ; 
The  rest  these  doctors  cannot  give  me;  rest; 
An  hour  or  so  of  sleep ;  I  cannot  sleep. 


A  NIGHT  AT  ST.   HELENA  123 

The  sea  sobs  round  the  island !    What  a  night ! 
And  through  the  darker  night  within  me  now 
The  wandering  seas  of  memory  rise  and  cry : 
And  there  is  nought,  within  me  or  without, 
But  flying  clouds  and  ghostly  waves  that  rise 
In  wailing  crowds  out  of  the  deep  sea-gloom, 
And  toss  their  wild  white  arms  and  fling  them- 
selves 
Prone  on  the  pitiless  reefs  and  shudder  back 
Shrivelling  into  the  deep  sea-gloom  and  rise 
And  toss  their  arms  and  wail  and  fling  them- 
selves 
Down  on  the  reefs  once  more  for  leagues  and 

leagues 
Of  bitter  broken  coast  and  wet  black  night. 
My  hopes  are  cast  upon  the  shoals  of  time 
Like  driftwood ;  like  poor  painted  figure-heads 
That  once  were  pointed  to  a  crimson  East 
Of  uniniagined  Empires ;  and  are  now 


124  A   NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA 

Relics  of  splendid  wrecks,  tossed  in  the  pools 
Of  yellow  spume  among  the  barren  rocks. 

I  must  not  think :  God,  do  not  let  me  think : 
I  came  so  near :  I  should  go  mad  with  thought : 
God,  do  not  let  me  think :  I  must  not  think. 

See ;  I  am  like  a  little  child  to-night ! 

I  know  how  vain  such  thoughts  are ;  yet  I  think ; 

Even  as  a  child  who  wanders  down  a  street 

And  touches  every  door-post  as  he  goes, 

If  at  the  end  he  should  remember  one 

That  he  has  missed,  thinks  and  is  gnawed  with 

mute 
Sense  of  defeat,  till  he  returns  at  last, 
Begins  from  the  beginning  once  again 
And  touches  all.     Victory,  oh  my  God, 
I  also  came  so  near  that  I  could  see 
Its  emptiness ;  but  what  if  in  this  hour 


A   NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA  125 

I  also  am  become  as  one  of  these ; 
A  little  child,  Father,  a  little  child  ? 

Ah  no;    I  must  not  think!    Sleep,  sleep,  oh 

sleep, 
Come  down;   let  me  forget  a  little  while; 
Come  down ;  confuse  and  muffle  me  with  dreams. 
Now  let  the  old  hopes  and  fears  and  schemes  of 

state, 
The  policies  and  purposes  of  war, 
The  plans  and  charts  and  lying  bulletins, 
The  flying  marches  and  the  subtle  flights, 
The  plumed  and  hissing  hurricane  of  the  charge 
And  all  the  red  roar  of  the  hidden  guns 
Mix  with  the  mere  mortality  that  dreams 
Of  human  suffering  in  the  unburied  past ; 
The  passions  and  ambitions  and  desires 
That  ride  like  waves  in  furious  regiments; 
The  glory  and  the  cruelty  and  the  love 


126  A  NIG11T  AT  ST.   HELENA 

That  clamour  with  the  legions  of  the  storm, 
Now  let  them  mix  with  this  wide  hungry  sea 
Of  hopeless  memory,  weltering  in  the  dark ; 
Though  all  beneath  the  gracious  influence 
Of  sleep  must  seem  so  pitiful ;  helpless,  too, 
Within  its  human  prison.     The  sea  sobs 
Hopeless  and  helpless,  wide  and  blind  as  fate, 
And  darkly  swayed  and  swung,  hither  and  thither 
In  terrible  impotent  agony,  seeking  still 
The  meaning  of  its  own  intense  desire 
So  vainly  and  for  ever.    What  a  night ! 

There  was  a  meaning  once !    It  seemed  as  near 
As  the  sky  seems  to  children.    Yet,  I  think 
It  could  not  be  so  near :  youth  is  too  young 
To  feel  the  worth  of  the  glory  that  it  wears, 
The  splendour  of  the  unattainable  height, 
The  light  that  shines  upon  the  unknown  way, 
The  chivalry,  the  beauty,  and  the  truth, 


A  NIGHT  AT  ST.   HELENA  127 

Which  none  can  see  till  afterwards;  and  you 
Still  come  in  dreams,  Ninette,   still  come  in 

dreams, 
Across  that  cherry  orchard  in  the  dawn  — 
My  God,  how  red  the  dawn  is,  red  as  blood !  — 
And  yet  you  trip  so  lightly  down  the  path, 
You  trip  so  lightly  down  the  path,  Ninette, 
To  meet  the  little  sunburnt  lad  you  knew. 

I  wonder  if  you  still  remember  this, 
And  how  from  the  low  ladder,  with  one  hand 
Upon  his  happy  shoulder,  you  leaned  down 
With  that  red  cherry  parting  your  red  lips 
And  kissed  it  softly  and  sweetly  through  his  own 
Red  parting  lips,  until  the  four  lips  met. 

Ninette,  Ninette,  remember  the  Old  Guard 
Before  you  kiss  me.    Ah,  no,  no ;  defeat 
May  pass;  but  you  will  come  again,  Ninette; 


128  A   NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA 

Do  not  forget  the  little  lad  you  loved. 

The  sea  sobs !    How  the  sea  sobs !    Let  it  pass. 

Ah,  yes ;  there  was  a  meaning.    Once,  it  seemed 
To  elude  me  by  a  hair's  breadth  as  I  searched 
Through  volume  after  volume  by  the  light 
Of  guttering  candles  in  the  garret  there 
At  Paris,  ere  the  barricadoed  streets 
Ran  red  and  ere  the  crash  of  the  Bastille 
Shook   Europe   and    my   soul   and    bid    them 

wake ; 
And  the  great  crimson  furnace  that  was  France 
Kept  all  the  world  at  bay,  just  as  a  fire 
Lit  in  a  forest  camp  with  none  to  guard 
Keeps  all  the  ravenous  eyes  of  the  wild  beasts 
Back,  burning  in  the  gloom  of  utter  doubt : 
And  once  I  seemed  to  approach  it  as  men  heard 
Beyond  the  nightmares  of  the  expectant  world 
That  sea  of  sick  white  faces  whispering  death ; 


A   NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA  129 

And  then  along  the  stunned  and  blinded  streets 
The  roar  that  rolled  with  Danton  to  Ins  doom. 

Ninette,  Ninette,  remember  the  Old  Guard. 

I  think  that  he  is  most  a  king  whose  mind 
Is  likest  God's  in  power  and  in  desire 
Both  to  create  and  order;  and  this  thought 
Seemed  like  a  clue  in  those  old  days.    My  God, 
The  secret,  the  great  secret,  seemed  so  near 
When  with  a  gay  young  friend  of  mine  I  ran 
To  see  the  mob  insult  the  king's  own  courts, 
A  rabble  of  some  six  thousand  wretched  swine 
Possessed  with  evil  spirits;  we  saw  them  there 
Swarming  in  dirt  and  ugliness  through  all 
The  gates  and  corridors  until  at  last 
They  found  the  king;   and  oh,  my  friend  and  I, 
We  saw  him,  the  poor  royal  nincompoop, 
£ouis  the  Weakling,  Louis  the  Locksmith,  there, 

K 


130  A   NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA 

Having  a  red  cap  clapped  upon  his  brows, 
Pushed  to  a  window  by  their  dirty  hands 
And  made  to  bow  and  scrape  and  twiddle  thumbs 
And  smile  and  smirk  until  the  crew  below 
Was  graciously  inclined  to  belch  a  jest 
In  answer.     Oh,  I  knew  what  I  would  do : 
And  afterwards  the  secret  seemed  my  own 
When  I,  too,  stood  above  that  seething  mob 
With  the  divine  sense  of  the  supreme  power 
Of  death  and  judgment,  till  the  moment  came; 
And  as  I  stood  there  in  the  palace  gates 
My  lips  had  but  to  move,  once,  with  one  word, 
Fire !    And  the  sudden  apocalypse  of  my  guns 
Beginning  their  evangel  to  the  world 
Had  hurled  the  chaos  back  into  the  gloom. 

And  you ;  oh,  poor  pale  face  of  Josephine, 
Why  do  you  come  to  mock  me  with  your  tears  ? 
Ah,  smile,  smile  at  me;  do  not  weep;  I'll  bear 


A   NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA  131 

Everything,  but  not  that!    Do  you  hear  me? 

Hate, 
Mockery,  —  do  you  hear  me  ?  —  everything ; 
But  not  those  tears.    I  cannot  bear  your  love; 
No ;  nor  your  pity ;  let  both  die,  I  say ! 
Will  Love  not  die,  my  God,  will  Love  not  die  ? 

Ah  yes;  God  knows;  for  we  are  parting  now ; 
And  I  can  strangle  it.    Can  a  woman  kill 
The  child  she  suckled,  the  child  whose  little  feet 
She  warmed  against  her  heart,  whose  little  fingers 
Clung  softly  round  her  breasts  imprinting  them 
With  blind  dimpled  caresses,  and  whose  body 
Grew  like  a  blossom  crumpled  for  the  bliss 
Of  little  laughs  and  kisses ;  can  she  kill 
Her  child,  I  say ;  and  I  not  kill  my  love  ? 
Oh,  you  may  plead  and  plead  and  plead  and 

plead  ; 
But  you  shall  never  move  me :  I  must  go 


132  A  NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA 

Upward  and  onward  now :  I  loved  you  once : 

God  knows  I  loved  you  once;  but  Love  can  die; 

And  here  see  I  kill  Love  for  purposes 

Of  state.     Oh,  Love  turns  up  a  ghastly  face 

When  he  lies  dying ;  and  he  lingers,  lingers  ; 

And  I  must  crush  him  underfoot  and  yet 

His  life  seems  rooted  in  an  evil  dream 

That  lives  for  ever;   though  I  burst  his  heart 

And  trample  it  underfoot  he  lingers  and  clings 

And  each  of  all  his  pangs  is  mine,  mine,  mine ! 

Oh  God,  will  Love  not  die,  will  Love  not  die  ? 

But  they  are  wiser  than  they  know  who  say 
To  fight  with  ghosts  is  but  to  wound  the  wind ; 
For  the  sword  passes  through  them  and  they 

laugh ! 
I  might  as  easily  trample  down  the  sea ! 
The  sea  sobs ;  how  the  sea  sobs ;  what  a  night ! 
Oh  now,  I  see  us  as  we  stood  that  day, 


A  NIGHT  AT  ST.   HELENA  133 

At  parting,  face  to  face ;  I  hear  you  crying 
On  God  and  Love  and  begging  me  to  take 
You  in  my  arms,  you  that  I  loved  so,  you 
Pleading  with  me ;  for  we  are  parting  now 
For  ever ;  ah,  to  take  you  in  my  arms 
Against  my  heart  once,  for  the  last,  last  time ; 
To  feel  your  mouth  crushed  on  my  mouth  again 
For  one  swift  moment,  while  we  both  forgot 
That  when  the  moment  ended  all  must  end. 

Love,  love,  you  plead  with  such  a  tortured  face ; 
But  mine,  I  see,  is  calm  as  marble  still. 

You  should  have  known  I  loved  you,  oh  my 

queen, 
You  must  have  known  I  loved  you!    Christ, 

what  tears ! 

Peace!    Peace!    You  knew  it  from   the  very 
first, 


134  A   NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA 

Or  should  have  known  it,  had  your  eyes  the 

power 
To  bear  the  light,  or  had  your  heart  been  true 
As  I  now  swear  before  the  face  of  God 
My  heart  was  true  to  you :  we  might  have  risen 
Above  this  world  of  battles  then;  but  now 
I  rise  alone :  it  is  too  late  for  love ; 
But,  ere  I  go,  remember  I  have  loved 
You  only ;  loved  you  with  what  heart  I  had ; 
And  I  could  stand  before  the  eternal  throne 
And  boast  —  my  heart  is  great  as  any  man's. 
But  you  could  never  love.    I  did  not  ask 
Love  from  a  heart  like  yours.    Had  you  been 

true 
No  more,  but  only  true  —  oh,  I  am  cruel, 
And  shall  be  crueller  yet  —  I  should  not  thus 
Cast  you  aside  as  I  cast  off  a  cloak 
To  don  the  purple.    Ah,  my  queen,  you  thought 
That  I  was  blind ;  and  you  must  think  me  blind, 


A  NIGHT  AT  ST.   HELENA  135 

Blind,  blind  and  hard  as  brutal  nature  now, 
Blind  as  I  seemed,  once,  wrapt  in  my  vague 

dreams, 
Dreams  vague  as  the  horizons  of  the  world. 
Ah,  could  you  dream  they  ringed  no  seas,  no 

shores, 
No  cities  ?    No ;  not  even  a  little  hut 
For  Love  to  hide  his  head  in  ?    All  was  blank. 
I  tell  you  that  before  ten  years  have  passed 
All  Europe  shall  be  crouching  like  a  hound 
Before  this  blind  man's  feet.    You  poor  blind 

eyes 
That  I  have  loved  so  long  and  kissed  so  often, 
I  love  you  still  and  kiss  you  for  the  last 
Last  time;  but  all  the  love  I  had  to  give 
I  keep  henceforward  as  a  flaming  sword 
In  my  own  heart.     No  scruple,  no  remorse, 
Can  check  my  course  at  any  wayside  plea : 
The  end,  the  end  is  all.    I  never  cared 


136  A  NIGHT  AT  8T.   HELENA 

If  those  whose  sight  was  barred  by  walls  and 

roofs, 
Gossipers  in  the  streets,  could  fail  to  see 
My  hope  on  the  horizon;  but  you  stood 
With  all  those  chatterers;  and  you  think  me 

blind 
Because  I  see  my  battle  rising  black 
As  thunder  in  the  distance,  and  I  pass 
Unheeding  all  the  things  that  claim  your  eyes 
To  my  own  kingdom.     Now  let  those  that  cross 
My  path  take  heed ;  for  when  I  come  alone, 
The  forces  of  the  world  are  on  my  side, 
The  pitiless  powers  that  feed  the  sun  with  fire, 
Direct  the  wheeling  planets  and  control 
The  invincible  countermarching  of  the  stars: 
And  it  shall  seem,  to  those  that  hear  my  battle 
Rolling  afar  the  great  psalm  of  my  guns, 
As  if  the  old  energies  of  time  and  space 
From  chaos  recreated  and  reformed 


A   NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA  137 

To  my  own  order  and  new  purposes 
Were  passing  o'er  the  borders  of  this  earth, 
Chanting,  like  pilgrims  on  a  pilgrimage 
Through  the  deep  gloom  of  sorrow  and  sin  and 

death, 
The  dark  funereal  progress  of  the  world 
To  the  vast  triumphs  of  Eternity; 
A  chant  that  sounds  as  if  the  seas  of  doom 
Were  slowly  breaking  on  an  iron  shore 
Remote  and  inappellable  as  God. 
Nations  shall  call  me  Christ  and  Anti-Christ ; 
And  in  all  ages  to  the  end  of  years 
My  spirit  shall  brood  upon  the  seas  of  war ; 
And  in  the  dawn  of  battle,  when  great  kings 
Take  council,  they  shall  think  and  dream  of  me 
And  speak  my  name   with    bated    breath ;    nor 

dare 
To  call  me  their  exemplar;  lest  the  world 
Should  mock  their  mad  assumption  of  my  throne ; 


138  A  NIGHT  AT  ST.   HELENA 

And  when  another  conqueror  comes  and  goes 

His  fame  shall  be  a  jewel  in  my  crown; 

His  sword  shall  only  serve  to  write  my  name 

More  deeply  in  the  memory  of  mankind. 

It  is  engraved  upon  the  Pyramids 

To  which  I  pointed  on  that  golden  day 

In  Egypt.    There,  before  the  silent  army 

I  rode  and  said,  "My  soldiers,  forty  ages 

Look  down  upon  you."    Why,  I  saw  men  weep, 

Great  bearded  men ;  and  I  have  heard  my  name 

"The  little  Corporal,"  sobbed  out  as  they  died 

From  throats  that  choked  with  love  and  blood 

and  love 
And,  though  I  never  loved  these  men  at  all,  — 
Yet  I  shall  be  remembered  when  the  God 
Of  battles  is  forgotten. 

Poor  pale  face, 
Upturned  to  that  cold  marble  countenance, 
Why  do  you  plead :  I  see  you,  hear  you,  still. 


A  NIGHT  AT  ST.   HELENA  139 

"  No,  no ;  you  must  not  leave  me,  I  should  die 
With  shame.    Come  back,  come  back;  ah,  feel 

my  heart, 
Put  your  arms  round  me.     Oh,  you  did  not  mean 
Those  bitter  bitter  words:    come  back,  come 
back." 

No ;  do  not  hold  your  arms  out ;  do  not  lift 
Your  poor  beseeching  face  to  me  again. 
If  shame  could  kill  you  or  if  love  had  once 
Wounded  your  heart,  then  pity  might  kill  me. 
But  since  you  never  loved,  never  were  true 
To  God  or  man ;  why,  when  the  hour  is  come, 
I  say  that  there  are  forces  in  this  world 
Greater  than  love  or  pity :  not  so  great, 
Perhaps,  in  heaven ;  but  greater  far  on  earth : 
And  I  have  all  these  forces  in  my  heart. 
In  one  thing,  only  one,  I  did  you  wrong ; 
I  never  should  have  loved  you,  that  was  all. 
Such  men  as  I  should  never  breathe  our  love 


140  A   NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA 

To  women :  we  should  stand  or  fall  alone ; 
And  claim  for  friends  the  lonely  sun,  the  dark 
Desolate  night  and  give  our  visions  room 
To  grow  in :  the  blind  world  is  on  our  side 
With  all  its  grey  old  cruelties  of  fate; 
And  there  is  no  appeal  to  us.    Your  tears  ? 
A  few  more  drops  in  that  eternal  sea 
Of  sorrow  we  hear  sighing  in  our  sleep, 
What  are  they  to  a  soul  that  sees  the  world 
Crimsoned  with  God's  own  anguish  every  hour, 
While  obscure  Christs  are  crucified  in  dark 
Unnoted  Calvaries  ?    Nature  drinks  their  blood 
And  thrives  and  blossoms  on  their  agony. 
Marble  were  far  more  pitiful  than  those 
Who  cannot  share  the  lesser  griefs  and  pains, 
Because  they  comprehend  them  and  the  laws 
That  keep  the  calm  blind  universe  at  peace, 
At  perfect  peace,  I  say,  in  spite  of  all 
Its  wild  particular  wars,  consummate  peace; 


A   NIGHT  AT  ST.   HELENA  141 

Even  as  the  heavens  eternally  comprehend 
This  little  grain  of  dust  we  call  our  earth, 
And  myriads  like  it,  which  with  all  their  woes, 
Are  in  the  larger  view  such  quiet  stars. 
No ;   no ;   you  must  not  plead ;   you  must  not 

plead, 
Your  thoughts  and  words  and  dreams  wither 

away 
Like  waves  against  a  cliff :  I  cannot  hear 
Or  understand  you  more  than  as  a  voice 
Crying  from  some  far  world  I  used  to  know 
Before  my  birth ;  a  thin  unhappy  voice, 
Meaningless  as  the  stirring  of  a  child 
Within  its  mother's  womb :  there  is  a  gulf, 
A  great  gulf  fixed  between  us,  and  we  move 
On   different   planes.     No   word   of   yours   can 

reach 
Me;  and  you  will  but  hurt  your  own  poor  pride 
If  you  should  try :  no ;  no ;  you  must  not  plead : 


142  A  NIGHT  AT  ST.   HELENA 

Child,  child,  you  must  not  plead:    there  is  no 

dream 
So  foolish  in  this  weakling  world  of  ours 
As  that  you  call  "forgiveness." 

There  are  laws 
Of  action  and  reaction ;  and  no  force 
Can  ever  be  destroyed.    Ah  yes;  I  know 
That  heat  may  be  transfigured  into  light ; 
As  also  I  know  this  —  that  God  forgives 
And  he  that  has  been  injured  may  forgive; 
But,  he  that  injures,  never.    It  would  mean 
Remorse,  you  understand,  and  that  is  more 
Than  any  man  can  bear ;  once  let  the  past, 
The  might-have-beens  and  pities  flesh  their  fangs 
And  they  will  never  leave  you.    Curse  me  now; 
And  I  could  greet  your  curses  with  a  smile, 
But  do  not  cry  for  pity  to  the  stars, 
Or  seek  forgiveness  from  the  implacable  earth 
Or  from  the  soul  that  sinned  so  bitterly 


A   NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA  143 

And  strayed  so  far  from  its  appointed  path 
As  here  on  earth  to  dare  to  love  you,  child. 
Oh,  there  are  reasons  deep  as  heaven  and  hell 
Why  sins  like  this  can  never  be  forgiven. 
What  can  you  say  to  tortured  souls  like  mine 
Who  hold  a  world  within  them,  whose  blind 

struggle 
Is  one  with  all  the  conflict  of  the  ages, 
God's  paradox,  God's  universal  war? 

Why,  all  men  know  that  war  is  but  a  crude 
And  savage  way  of  ending  the  dispute 
Of  nations :  not  a  statesman  in  this  world 
But  knows  this  better  than  the  petty  fools 
Who  rave  against  his  ugly  thirst  for  blood ; 
And  yet  so  mighty  and  so  broadly  bound 
By  the  great  primal  laws  of  ebb  and  flow, 
The  laws  that  rule  the  winds,  the  waves,  the 

stars, 
Are  all  these  larger  motions  of  the  deep 


144  A   NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA 

We  call  humanity,  that  not  the  power 
Of  all  earth's  loftiest  individual  souls 
Can  more  than  take  advantage  of  a  tide 
Or  ride  the  tempest  out,  when  once  the  sun 
Summons  the  winds  together  and  with  a  shout 
Sets  red  for  battle  o'er  the  roaring  sea. 

One  with  the  larger  motions  of  the  deep, 
The  laws  that  rule  my  life  are  not  as  yours ; 
Ah,  do  not  hold  your  arms  out ;  do  not  lift 
Your  poor  beseeching  face  to  me  again. 
Ah,  still  you  plead,  my  love  and  queen,  you 

plead. 
"I  dare  not   let   you   leave  me,"  Christ,  what 

tears, 
As  the  poor  words  rise  trembling,  "Listen  now! 
For  now  I  know  that  all  you  say  is  true : 
I  never  loved  you ;  but  I  never  loved 
Any  on  earth :  come  back  to  me,  come  back ! 


A   NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA  14o 

You  know  that  there  are  moments  in  the  lives 
Of  women,  when  they  reach  the  utmost  height, 
Moments  when  all  their  dreams  of  heaven  are 

flashed 
As  quintessential  blood  along  their  veins 
Inspiring  them  with  such  divinity 
That    they   outstrip    the   swiftest    thoughts   of 

man 
And  overrule  the  laws  of  time  and  fate. 
Then,  with  that  flash,  they  see  the  living  truth 
And  love  it,  as  I  stand  up  now  and  say 
I  never  loved  you  till  this  hour ;  but  now 
I  love  you  as  I  never  loved  my  pride, 
I  love  you  as  I  never  loved  my  life, 
I  love  you  as  I  never  loved  my  God ; 
Husband,  I  dare  not  let  you  go  !    My  God ! 
My  God,  be  pitiful.     I  did  not  know 
That  love  would  be  like  this :  my  heart  is  break- 
ing, 


L 


1-46  A  NIGHT  AT  ST.   II ELENA 

Breaking;    ah,  feel  my  heart:    give  me  your 

hands. 
How  cold  they  are,  how  cold,  how  cold  they  are : 
Feel,  feel  my  heart ;  ah,  let  me  warm  them  there. 
You  will  not  leave  me ;  no ;  God  is  too  good ; 
Thank    God!    Thank    God!    Your    tears    run 

down  like  rain! 
You  cannot  leave  me  now !    Thank  God !    Thank 

God!" 

I  only  loved  one  woman  in  my  life 

And  you  are  she,  the  first  and  last.    Farewell. 

There  was  a  meaning  once ;  and  still  it  seems 
To  elude  me  by  a  hair's  breadth ;  yet  I  think 
That  I  should  never  have  attained :  my  quest 
Was  infinite:   those  eastern  empires  faded, 
Horizon  after  golden  glad  horizon, 
Into  another  wider  than  the  world. 


A   NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA  147 

The  secret  never  seemed  so  near  as  now, 

Save  once  when,  sailing  o'er  a  bitter  sea 

My  atheists  disproved  the  eternal  God 

And  I  confuted  them  by  lifting  up 

One  hand  and  pointing  to  the  unfathomed  night 

Sprinkled  with  its  innumerable  stars. 

Why,  there  I  conquered  and  I  conquer  still  ; 

There,  dumb  and  blind  as  I,  my  kingdom  lay. 

For  I  must  think  that  all  these  vast  desires 

Were  leading  me  to  cast  aside  this  weight 

Of  earth,  its  limitations  and  its  laws, 

In  wars  that  spelt  my  discontent  with  less 

Than   heaven;    for  which   I   blindly,   bloodily 

ploughed 
My  way  across  the  reeling  world  to  God. 

Austerlitz,  Wagram,  Moscow  in  my  hands; 
And  I  in  thine,  oh  God,  and  I  in  thine; 
The  illimitable  white  wilderness  around 


148  A   NIGHT  AT  ST.    HELENA 

The  burning  city  and  the  long  road  home ; 
The  white  way  of  the  innumerable  dead 
Horses  and  men  that  dotted  it  for  leagues 
With  little  specks  of  black  all  stiff  and  still 
Like  frozen  flies  upon  a  great  white  wall. 

Now  all  the  bands  are  breaking  and  I  see 

All :  I  am  blinded ;  for  I  see  the  Face, 

The  Face  that  none  can  look  upon  and  live; 

And  I  am  one  with  all  and  God  is  all; 

Nothing  but  God,  I  say,  nothing  but  God, 

On  every  side,  without  me  and  within. 

I  triumph,  triumph ;  here,  where  all  is  lost, 

I  say  I  triumph,  here,  at  Waterloo. 

See,  as  they  break,  through  every  gap  it  streams 

Whiter  than  light,  the  blinding  death  of  God ; 

Nothing  but  God,  I  say,  nothing  but  God. 

I  only  loved  one  country  in  my  life, 

And  that  was  France :  I  saw  her  break  her  heart 


A  NIG1IT  AT  ST.   HELENA  149 

Against  the  cruel  squares :  then  the  last  order 

Broke  from  my  lips  as  coldly  as  a  smile. 

God !    How  they  rode !    All  France  was  in  that 

last 
Charge;  and  France  broke  her  heart  for  me;  I 

saw 
France  break  her  heart :  her  blood  was  red 
As  the  long  British  lines :  then  some  one  took 
My  rein  and  turned  my  horse  away. 

Ninette,  Ninette,  remember  the  Old  Guard. 


EARTH-BOUND 

Ghosts  ?    Love  would  fain  believe, 

Earth  being  so  sweet,  the  dead  might  wish  to 
return ! 

Is  it  so  strange  if,  even  in  heaven,  they  yearn 
For  the  May-time  and  the  dreams  it  used  to  give  ? 

Through  dark  abysms  of  Space, 

From  strange  new  spheres  where  Death  has 
called  them  now, 

May  they  not,  with  a  crown  on  every  brow, 
Still  cry  to  the  loved  earth's  lost  familiar  face  ? 

We  two,  love,  we  should  come 
Seeking  a  little  refuge  from  the  light 
Of  the  blinding  terrible  star-sown  Infinite, 

Seeking  some  sheltering  roof,  some  four-walled 
home. 

ISO 


EARTH-BOUND  151 

From  that  too  high,  too  wide 

Communion  with  the  universe  and  God, 
How  sweet  to  creep  back  to  some  lane  we  trod 

Hemmed  in  with  a  hawthorn  hedge  on  either  side. 

Fresh  from  death's  boundless  birth, 
How  sweet  the  circled  vision  of  the  sea 
Would  seem  to  souls  tired  of  Infinity, 

How  sweet  the  soft  blue  boundaries  of  earth, 

How  sweet  the  nodding  spray 

Of  pale  green  leaves  that  made  the  sapphire 
deep 

A  background  to  the  dreams  of  that  brief  sleep 
We  called  our  life  when  heaven  was  far  away. 

How  strange  would  be  the  sight 

Of  the  little  towns  and  twisted  streets  again, 
Where  all  the  hurrying  works  and  ways  of  men 

Would  seem  a  children's  game  for  our  delight. 


152  EARTH-BOUND 

What  boundless  heaven  could  give 

This  joy  in  the  strait  austere  restraints  of 

earth, 
Whereof  the  dead  have  felt   the  immortal 
dearth 
Who  look  upon  God's  face  and  cannot  live? 

Our  ghosts  would  clutch  at  flowers 
As  drowning  men  at  straws,  for  fear  the  sea 
Should  sweep  them  back  to  God's  Eternity, 

Still  clinging  to  the  day  that  once  was  ours. 

No  more  with  fevered  brain 

Plunging  across  the  gulfs  of  Space  and  Time 
Would  we  revisit  this  our  earthly  clime 

We  two,  if  we  could  ever  come  again ; 

Not  as  we  came  of  old, 

But  reverencing  the  flesh  we  now  despise 


EARTU-BOUND  153 

And  gazing  out  with  consecrated  eyes, 
Each  of  us  glad  of  the  other's  hand  to  hold. 

So  we  should  wander  nigh 

Our  mortal  home,  and  see  its  little  roof 
Keeping  the  deep  eternal  night  aloof 

And  yielding  us  a  refuge  from  the  sky. 

We  should  steal  in,  once  more, 
Under  the  cloudy  lilac  at  the  gate, 
Up  the  walled  garden,  then  with  hearts  elate 

Forget  the  stars  and  close  our  cottage  door. 

Oh  then,  as  children  use 
To  make  themselves  a  little  hiding-place, 
We  would  rejoice  in  narrowness  of  space, 

And  God  should  give  us  nothing  more  to  lose. 

How  sweet  it  all  would  seem 
To  souls  that  from  the  a?onian  ebb  and  flow 


154  EARTH-BOUND 

Came  down  to  hear  once  more  the  to  and  fro 
Swing  o'  the  clock  dictate  its  hourly  theme. 

How  sweet  the  strange  recall 
From  vast  antiphonies  of  joy  and  pain 
Beyond  the  grave,  to  these  old  books  again, 

That  cosy  lamp,  those  pictures  on  the  wall. 

Home !    Home !    The  old  desire ! 
We  would  shut  out  the  innumerable  skies, 
Draw  close  the  curtains,  then  with  patient  eyes 
Bend  o'er  the  hearth ;  laugh  at  our  memories, 

Or  watch  them  crumbling  in  the  crimson  fire. 


SONG 

I  came  to  the  doors  of  the  House  of  Love 
And  knocked  as  the  starry  night  went  by; 

And  my  true  love  cried  "Who  knocks?"  and  I 
said 
"It  is  I." 

And  Love  looked  down  from  a  lattice  above 
Where  the  roses  were  dry  as  the  lips  of  the  dead ; 

"There  is  not  room  in  the  House  of  Love 
For  you  both,"  he  said. 

I  plucked  a  leaf  from  the  porch  and  crept 
Away  through  a  desert  of  scon's  and  scorns 

To  a  lonely  place  where  I  prayed  and  wept 
And  wove  me  a  crown  of  thorns. 

165 


156  SONG 

I  came  once  more  to  the  House  of  Love 
And  knocked,  ah  softly  and  wistfully, 

And  my  true  love  cried  "Who  knocks?"  and  I 
said 
"None  now  but  thee." 

And  the  great  doors  opened  wide  apart 

And  a  voice  rang  out  from  a  glory  of  light, 

"Make  room,  make  room  for  a  faithful  heart 
In  the  House  of  Love,  to-night." 


THE  SONG  OF  RE-BIRTH 

In  the  light  of  the  silent  stars  that  shine  on  the 

struggling  sea, 
In  the  weary  cry  of  the  wind  and  the  whisper  of 

flower  and  tree, 
Under  the  breath  of  laughter,  deep  in  the  tide  of 

tears, 
I  hear  the  Loom  of  the  Weaver  that  weaves  the 

Web  of  Years. 

The  leaves  of  the  winter  wither  and  sink  in  the 

forest  mould 
To  colour  the  flowers  of  April  with  purple  and 

white  and  gold, 
Light  and  scent  and  music  die  and  are  born  again 
In  the  sigh  of  a  weary  woman  that  wakes  in  a 

world  of  pain. 

167 


158  THE  BONO  OF  RE-BIRTH 

The  hound,  the  fawn  and  the  hawk,  and  the 

doves  that  croon  and  coo, 
Well  we  know  for  our  kindred  with  all  beneath 

the  blue, 
The  black  wave  and  the  flowing  wind  that  hold 

our  hopes  and  fears 
As  we  come  from  the  Loom  of  the  Weaver  that 

weaves  the  Web  of  Years. 

The  green  uncrumpling  fern  and  the  dew  that 

dims  the  rose 
Are  mingled  into  the  Silence  where  the  wings  of 

music  close, 
Mingled  into  the  Timeless  that  never  a  moment 

mars, 
Mingled  into  the  Darkness  that  made  the  suns 

and  stars. 

Soul  to  soul  in  the  Darkness,  dust  to  dust  in  the 
light 


THE  BONG   OF  RE-BIRTH  159 

The  wefts  outworn  of   the  ages   are  gathered 

again  from  the  night, 
Losing  never  a  thread  of  their  scattered  hopea 

and  fears 
As  they  come  from  the  Loom  of  the  Weaver  that 

weaves  the  Web  of  Years. 

Oh,  woven  in  one  wide  Loom  through  the  throb- 
bing weft  of  the  whole, 

One  in  spirit  and  flesh,  one  in  body  and  soul, 

Though  the  wave  is  alone  in  its  whisper,  the  wind 
in  its  weary  sigh, 

The  heart  of  man  in  the  silence,  the  night  in  its 
human  cry, 

One  with  the  flower  of  a  day,  one  with  the 

withered  moon, 
One  with  the  granite  mountains  that  melt  into 

the  noon, 


160  THE  SONG   OF  RE-BIRTH 

One  with  the  dream  that  triumphs  beyond  the 

light  of  the  spheres, 
We  come  from  the  Loom  of  the  Weaver  that 

weaves  the  Web  of  Years. 


AMOUR  DU  CREPUSCULE 

"To  a  tune  of  Blake's" 
Sweet  Sleep,  linger  nigh  ; 
Let  the  smile  be  half  a  sigh, 
Wistful  as  the  parting  day, 
Tired  of  striving  to  be  gay. 

Sweet  Night,  with  dim  hair 
Brush  the  sunny  breast  half  bare, 
Where  the  rosebud  softly  glows 
Through  the  gloaming  of  repose. 

Sweet  Love,  with  deep  wings 
Clothe  me  close  in  shadowings, 
While  my  softly  breathing  lips 
Touch  her  softly  breathing  lips. 

M  101 


162  AMOUR  DU  CREPUSCULE 

Dreams,  dreams,  dim  her  eyes, 
Let  her  wake  in  sweet  surprise, 
Wondering  what  sad  singing  bird 
In  the  twilight  softly  stirred. 

What  sweet  moment  floated  nigh, 
Flower  or  wild-winged  butterfly, 
Honey-laden  like  a  bee, 
Murmuring  of  infinity. 


OLD  JAPAN 

In  old  Japan,  by  creek  and  bay, 

The  blue  plum-blossoms  blow, 
Where  birds  with  sea-blue  plumage  gay 

Through  sea-blue  branches  go ; 
Dragons  are  coiling  down  below 

Like  dragons  on  a  fan ; 
And  pig-tailed  sailors  lurching  slow 

Through  streets  of  old  Japan. 

There,  in  the  dim  blue  death  of  day, 
Where  white  tea-roses  grow, 

Petals  and  scents  are  strewn  astray 
Till  night  be  sweet  enow ; 

Then  lovers  wander  whispering  low, 

As  lovers  only  can, 
ioy 


164  OLD  JAPAN 

Where  rosy  paper  lanterns  glow, 
Through  streets  of  old  Japan. 

From  Wonderland  to  Yea-Or-Nay 

The  junks  with  painted  prow 
Dream  on  the  purple  water-way, 

Nor  ever  meet  a  foe ; 
Though  still,  with  stiff  mustachio 

And  crooked  ataghan, 
Their  pirates  guard  with  pomp  and  show 

The  ships  of  old  Japan. 

How  far  beyond  the  dawning  day 

The  glories  ebb  and  flow, 
Where  still  the  wonder-children  play, 

The  witches  mop  and  mow ; 
How  far,  how  far,  no  chart  may  show, 

To  heart  of  mortal  man, 
The  light,  the  splendour,  and  the  glow 

That  once  were  old  Japan. 


OLD  JAPAN  165 

That  land  is  very  far  away, 

We  lost  it  long  ago ; 
In  old  Japan  the  grass  is  grey, 

The  trees  are  white  with  snow  ; 
The  sea-blue  bird  became  a  crow, 

The  lizards  leapt  and  ran, 
No  dragons  mourned  that  overthrow, 

The  dream  of  old  Japan. 

In  old  Japan,  at  windows  grey, 

Where  scents  of  opium  flow, 
Strange  smiling  faces,  white  as  clay, 

Nod  idly  to  and  fro ; 
There  life  and  death  may  come  and  go, 

With  blessing  or  with  ban, 
And  still  no  better  gift  bestow 

Than  this,  in  old  Japan. 

And  now  the  wistful  years  delay 
To  wonder  why  and  how 


166  OLD  JAPAN 

The  blue  fantastic  twisted  day, 
When  Emperor  Hwang  or  Chow 

Dreamed  in  the  colour  and  the  glow 
That  light  the  heart  of  man, 

Could  e'er  such  hours  of  flowers  bestrow 
Through  streets  of  old  Japan. 

In  old  Japan  they  used  to  play 

A  game  forgotten  now ; 
They  filled  a  nacre-coloured  tray 

With  perfumes  in  a  row, 
Breathing  of  all  the  flowers  that  blow 

Where  dark-blue  rivers  ran, 
Like  those  upon  the  plates,  you  know, 

Through  fields  of  old  Japan ; 

Then  with  a  silver  spatula 

The  mandarins  would  go 
To  test  the  scented  dust  and  say, 

With  many  a  hum  and  ho, 


OLD  JAPAN  167 

What  flower  of  all  the  flowers  that  grow 

For  joy  of  maid  or  man 
Conceived  the  scents  that  puzzled  so 

The  brains  of  old  Japan  ? 

In  old  Japan,  where  poets  pray 

With  white  uplifted  brow, 
What  mystic  floating  scents  delay 

Below  the  purple  bough, 
O'er  plains  no  scythe  of  death  may  mow, 

Nor  power  of  reason  scan  ? 
What  mandarin  musicians  know 

The  flower  of  old  Japan  ? 

There,  in  the  dim  blue  death  of  day, 

Where  white  tea-roses  grow, 
Petals  and  scents  are  strewn  astray 

Till  night  be  sweet  enow; 


168  OLD  JAPAN 

Then  lovers  wander,  whispering  low, 

As  lovers  only  can, 
Where  rosy  paper  lanterns  glow, 

Through  streets  of  old  Japan. 


HAUNTED  IN  OLD  JAPAN 

i 

Music  of  the  star-shine  shimmering  o'er  the  sea, 
Mirror  me  no  longer  in  the  dusk  of  memory  ; 
Dim  and  white  the  rose-leaves  drift  along  the 
shore, 
Wind  among  the  roses,  blow  no  more ! 

n 

All  along  the  purple  creek  lit  with  silver  foam, 
Silent,  silent  voices,  cry  no  more  of  home; 
Soft  beyond  the  cherry  trees  o'er  the  dim  lagoon 
Dawns  the  crimson  lantern  of  the  large,  low  moon. 

in 

We  that  loved  in  April,  we  that  turned  away- 
Laughing,  ere  the  wood-dove  crooned  across  the 
May, 

169 


170  HAUNTED  IN  OLD  JAPAN 

Watch  the  withered  rose-leaves  drift  along  the 
shore, 
Wind  among  the  roses,  blow  no  more. 

rv 

We  that  saw   the  winter  waste   the  weeping 

bower, 
We  that  saw  the  young  love  perish  like  a  flower, 
We  that  saw  the   dark   eyes   deepening  with 

tears, 
Hear  the  vanished  voices  in  the  land  beyond  the 

years. 

v 

We  that  hurt  the  thing  we  loved ;  we  that  went 

astray, 
We  that  in  the  darkness  idly  dreamed  of  day  .  .  . 
...  Ah  !    The  dreary  rose-leaves  drift  along  the 

shore, 
Wind  among  the  roses,  blow  no  more ! 


HAUNTED  IN  OLD  JAPAN  171 

VI 

Lonely  starry  faces,  wonderful  and  white, 
Yearning  with  a  cry  across  the  dim  sweet  night, 
All  our  dreams  are  blown  adrift  as  flowers  before 

a  fan, 
All  our  hearts  are  haunted  in  the  heart  of  old 

Japan. 

vn 
Haunted,  haunted,  haunted;    we  that  mocked 

and  sinned 
Hear  the  vanished  voices  wailing  down  the  wind, 
Watch  the  ruined  rose-leaves  drift  along  the 

shore ; 
Wind  among  the  roses,  blow  no  more ! 

VIII 

We,  the  sons  of  reason,  we  that  chose  to  bride 
Knowledge  and  rejected  the   Dream   that  we 
denied, 


172  HAUNTED  IN  OLD  JAPAN 

We  that  mocked  the  Holy  Ghost  and  chose  the 

Son  of  Man,1 
Now  must  wander  haunted  in  the  heart  of  old 

Japan. 

IX 

Haunted,  haunted,  haunted,  by  the  sound  of 

falling  tears, 
Haunted,  haunted,  haunted,  by  the  yearning  of 

the  years ; 
Ah!    the  phantom  rose-leaves  drift  along  the 

shore ; 
Wind  among  the  roses,  blow  no  more ! 

x 

All  along  the  purple  creek,  lit  with  silver  foam, 
Sobbing,  sobbing  voices,  cry  no  more  of  home : 
Soft  beyond  the  cherry  trees  o'er  the  dim  lagoon 
Dawns  the  crimson  lantern  of  the  large,  low  moon 

1  V.  William  Blake  on  Voltaire. 


THE  SYMBOLIST 

Help  me  to  seek  that  unknown  land, 

Help  me  to  see  the  shrine, 
Help  me  to  feel  the  hidden  hand 

That  ever  holdeth  mine. 

Help  me  to  seek,  and  I  shall  see ; 

To  hear,  and  I  shall  know ; 
To  feel,  and  I  shall  hold  in  fee 

The  realms  of  earth  below. 

Help  me  to  mourn,  and  I  shall  love ; 

What  grief  is  like  to  mine  ? 
Crown  me  with  thorn,  the  stars  above 

Shall  in  the  circlet  shine  ! 

The  mystic  angels  group  and  kneel 
Around  the  cross  of  flame, 

173 


174  THE   SYMBOLIST 

Crying,  as  through  the  gloom  they  steal, 
The  glory  of  the  Name. 

The  Temple  opens  wide :  none  sees 
The  love,  the  dream,  the  light; 

Oh  blind  and  finite,  are  not  these 
Blinding  and  infinite  ? 

The  veil,  the  veil  is  rent :  the  skies 
Are  white  with  wings  of  fire, 

Where  victim  souls  triumphant  rise 
In  torment  of  desire. 

Help  me  to  seek :  I  would  not  find, 

For  when  I  find  I  know 
I  shall  have  clasped  the  hollow  wind 

And  built  a  house  of  snow. 


CHRIST  CRUCIFIED 

Cleak  on  the  ghostly  sky  the  sharp  black  cross, 
Bearing  the  lean  white  shuddering  limbs,  arose; 
And  the  dark  night  grew  darker  than  the  depth 
Of  ocean  with  unutterable  fear. 
Then  from  a  land  beyond  the  stars  it  seemed 
There  crept  a  thin  sad  voice  that  cut  the  heart 
To  hear  it,  for  so  cruelly  cried  the  Christ 
That,  of  the  women  waiting  there,  two  fell 
Fainting ;  but  the  third  woman  silently 
With  white  clenched  hands  clung  upright  to  the 

cross ; 
And  from  her  mouth  a  thin  bright  thread  of 

blood 
Ran  trickling  down ;  then  darker  grew  the  night, 
And  dark  beyond  all  hope  of  any  dawn, 

175 


176  CHRIST   CRUCIFIED 

Death  sank  upon  the  Christ  who  cried,  "My 

God, 
My  Father,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  Me?" 
When  over  Calvary  the  darkness  waned, 
Clear  on  the  ghostly  sky  the  sharp  black  cross 
Bearing  the  naked  lean  white  limbs  arose ; 
And,  of  the  women  waiting  there,  two  slept; 
But  one  clung  closely  to  the  bitter  tree. 
Her  mouth  was  bloody  from  her  broken  heart, 
And  Death  e'en  now  was  laying  his  cold  hand 
Upon  her  brow ;   the  twain  who  slept  were  good 
And  holy  women;  this  was  Magdalen. 


PASTICHE 

Low,  behind  dark  apple-boughs, 
And  the  farmer's  gabled  house, 

Sinks  the  slowly  reddening  sun; 

Day  is  nearly  done. 

Now  the  harvest-burdened  wains 
Drone  along  the  scented  lanes 

Homeward ;  and  the  deep  skies  break, 

And  the  stars  awake. 

Now  the  anchor  plunges  bright; 
And  the  ship  that  longed  for  night, 

In  the  haven,  far  below, 

Furls  her  wings  of  snow. 

It  is  finished :  Love  is  dead, 
And  the  birds  with  nestling  head 

*  177 


178  PASTICHE 

Now  beneath  a  ruffled  wing 
All  forget  to  sing. 

Looming  on  the  coloured  West, 
Like  young  giants,  fain  of  rest, 

Now  the  tired  labourers  go, 

Footing  dark  and  slow. 

Homeward  now  from  field  and  fold, 
Toilers  of  the  heat  and  cold, 

Men  that  laboured  long  to  learn, 

Patiently  return. 

In  the  rosy  deeps  of  space, 
Flower-like  as  an  angel's  face, 

Faint  and  sweet,  from  realms  afar, 

Shines  the  Vesper  star. 

It  is  finished :  toil  is  o'er, 
And  the  sea  forgets  the  shore, 


PASTICHE  179 

And  the  moon  and  stars  confess 
Man's  great  weariness. 

It  is  finished,  —  song  and  sin: 
And  the  fruits  are  gathered  in : 

And  the  weary  reapers  come, 

And  the  last  load  home. 

Now  are  healed  the  warrior's  wounds; 
In  the  West  a  bell  resounds : 

It  is  finished !  sleep  and  rest ! 

Man  has  done  his  best. 


ART 

"  The  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness" 
I 
Beyond;   beyond;   and  yet  again  beyond! 
What  went  ye  out  to  seek,  oh  foolish-f ond  ? 

Is  not  the  heart  of  all  things  here  and  now  ? 
Is  not  the  circle  infinite,  and  the  centre 
Everywhere,  if  ye  would  but  hear  and  enter  ? 
Come;   the  porch  bends  and  the  great  pillars 
bow. 

ii 
Come;  come  and  see  the  secret  of  the  sun; 
The  sorrow  that  holds  the  warring  worlds  in  one ; 

The  pain  that  holds  Eternity  in  an  hour; 
One  God  in  every  seed  self-sacrificed, 
One  star-eyed,  star-crowned  universal  Christ, 
Re-crucified  in  every  wayside  flower. 

180 


DE  PROFUNDIS 

Thou  who  hast  taken  the  dust  of  the  earth  and 
fashioned 

Of  thine  own  joy  and  pain 
This  body,  with  thine  own  love  endowed  and 
empassioned 

Till  it  return  again 
Dust  into  dust,  oh  Thou  who  livest  and  reignest 

To  all  Eternity, 
Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children, 

Pity  Thou  me. 

Thou  who  hast  made  me  an  heir  to  the  sins  of 
the  ages 

With  power  to  look  above 
And  claim,  if  I  will,  thine  agony  for  my  wages, 

Thy  wages  for  my  love ; 

181 


182  BE  PROFUNDIS 

To  wash  in  the  bitter  streams  of  eternal  anguish 

That  redden  sky  and  sea, 
Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children, 

Pity  Thou  me ! 

Thou  who  hast  given  me  the  law  and  the  will 
and  the  power, 

The  weakness  and  the  worth, 
The  strength  to  struggle  and  conquer  for  an 
hour 

And  then  sink  back  to  the  earth, 
See,  Lord,  my  heart  was  broken  in  that  great 
darkness ; 

Lord  Christ,  wilt  Thou  not  see  ? 
Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children 
Pity  Thou  me. 

Thou  who  hast  given  me  the  wonder  and  the 
vision, 

The  dream  and  the  desire; 


DE  PROFUNDIS  183 

Yet  withered  them  root  and  branch  ere  their 
fruition, 

Heaped  dust  upon  my  fire, 
Given    me    the    blinded    eyes,    the    feet    to 
wander 

How  far,  oh  God,  from  Thee, 
Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children 
Pity  Thou  me. 

Thou  who  hast  given  me  friends  and  the  heart  to 
wound  them, 

Even  whom  I  loved  the  most ; 
Even  when  mine  arms  were  yearning  to  go  round 
them 

My  mouth  could  scoff  and  boast ; 
Or  I  was  dumb,  when  all  the  soul  of  sorrow 

Cried  unto  Love  and  Thee, 
Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children 

Pity  Thou  me. 


184  BE  PROFUNDIS 

Not  for  the  seed  of  goodness  idly  cherished 

With  blind  and  secret  tears; 
Not  for  the  frail  ideal  dreams  that  perished 

With  the  dull  lapse  of  years; 
Be  near  me  now;   thy  creature  in  its  weakness 

Can  only  cry  to  Thee  — 
Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children, 

Pity  Thou  me. 

Thou  who  hast  given  me  love  and  again  hast 
taken 

The  loved  one  from  my  side, 
Who  am  all  too  weak;  ah,  why  hast  Thou  for- 
saken 
,  Me,  not  Thy  Crucified, 

Father,  only  Thy  little  one,  not  the  Master 

Of  earth  and  sky  and  sea  ? 
Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children, 
Pity  Thou  me ! 


THE  RALLY 

i 
How  beautiful  is  the  battle, 

How  splendid  are  the  spears, 
When  our  banner  is  the  sky 
And  our  watchword  Liberty, 

And  our  kingdom  lifted  high  above  the  years. 

ii 

How  purple  shall  our  blood  be, 

How  glorious  our  scars, 
When  we  he  there  in  the  night 
With  our  faces  full  of  light 

And  the  death  upon  them  smiling  at  the  stars. 

in 
How  golden  is  our  hauberk, 

And  steel,  and  steel  our  sword, 
And  our  shield  without  a  stain 
As  we  take  the  field  again, 

We  whose  armour  is  the  armour  of  the  Lord ! 

185 


THE  ANSWER 

Do  ye  believe  ?  We  never  wrote 

For  fools  at  ease  to  know 
The  doubt  that  grips  us  by  the  throat, 

The  faith  that  lurks  below ; 
But  we  have  stood  beside  our  dead, 

And,  in  that  hour  of  need, 
One  tear  the  Man  of  Sorrows  shed 

Was  more  than  any  creed. 

Do  ye  believe  f  —  from  age  to  age 

The  little  thinkers  cry; 
And  rhymesters  ape  the  puling  sage 

In  pride  of  artistry. 
Did  Joshua  stay  a  sun  that  rolls 

Around  a  central  earth  ?  — 
Our  modern  men  have  modern  souls 

And  formulate  their  mirth. 

186 


TEE  ANSWER  187 

But,  while  they  laugh,  from  shore  to  shore, 

From  sea  to  moaning  sea, 
Eloi,  Eloi,  goes  up  once  more 

Lama  sabacthani! 
The  heavens  are  like  a  scroll  unfurled, 

The  writing  flames  above  — 
This  is  the  King  of  all  the  world 

Upon  His  Cross  of  Love ! 

His  members  marred  with  wounds  are  we 

In  whom  the  spirit  strives, 
One  Body  of  one  Mystery, 

One  Life  in  many  lives : 
Darkly  as  in  a  glass  we  see 

The  mystic  glories  glow, 
Nor  shrink  from  God's  Infinity 

Incarnate  here  below ! 

In  flower,  and  dust,  in  chaff  and  grain, 
He  binds  Himself  and  dies, 


188  THE  ANSWER 

We  live  by  His  eternal  pain, 

His  hourly  sacrifice; 
The  limits  of  our  mortal  life 

Are  His :  the  whisper  thrills 
Under  the  sea's  perpetual  strife 

And  through  the  sunburnt  hills. 

Seek ;  ye  shall  find  each  flower  on  earth 

A  gateway  to  My  heart, 
Whose  Life  has  brought  each  leaf  to  birth; 

The  whole  is  in  the  part ! 
So  to  My  sufferers  have  ye  given 

What  help  or  hope  may  be, 
Oh  then,  through  earth,  through  hell,  through 
heaven, 

Ye  did  it  unto  Me ! 

Darkly,  as  in  a  glass,  our  sight 
Still  gropes  through  Time  and  Space : 


THE  ANSWER  189 

We  cannot  see  the  Light  of  Light 

With  angels,  face  to  face; 
Only  the  tale  His  martyrs  tell 

Around  the  dark  earth  rings  — 
He  died  and  He  went  down  to  hell 

And  lives  —  the  King  of  Kings ! 

Do  ye  believe  ?    On  every  side 

Great  hints  of  Him  go  by : 
Souls  that  are  hourly  crucified 

On  some  new  Calvary ! 
Oh,  tortured  faces,  white  and  meek, 

Half  seen  amidst  the  crowd, 
Grey  suffering  lips  that  never  speak, 

The  Glory  in  the  Cloud ! 

Do  ye  believe  ?    The  straws  that  dance 

Far  down  the  dusty  road 
Mean  little  to  the  careless  glance 

By  careless  eyes  bestowed, 


190  THE  ANSWER 

Till  full  into  your  face  the  wind 
Smites,  and  the  laugh  is  dumb ; 

And,  from  the  rending  heavens  behind, 
Christ  answers  —  Lo,  I  come. 


SEA  FOAM 

Take  my  song  and  let  it  be 
Frail  as  foam  upon  the  sea : 
Dumb  with  sorrow  let  it  die, 
It  is  not  more  frail  than  I. 

I  have  seen  it  in  my  dreams 
Floating  over  sapphire  streams, 
Like  a  dying  swan  that  loud 
Poureth  light  on  cliff  and  cloud : 

I  have  seen  it  soaring  high 
Scattering  music  o'er  the  sky : 
But  I  woke  with  face  aglow 
And  I  found  it  lying  low, 

In  a  stony  barren  place, 
Asking  comfort,  with  its  face 

191 


192  SEA  FOAM 

Pressed  against  the  bitter  dearth 
Of  our  mournful  mother,  Earth. 

When  in  dreams  it  sang  again 
Songs  of  sun  and  wind  and  rain, 
Oft  it  looked  on  me  and  smiled, 
Flying  o'er  the  waters  wild. 

In  the  dark  and  noisy  town 
Let  it  weary,  sink  and  drown: 
If  it  can  bestow  on  one 
Pilgrim  here  beneath  the  sun, 

Wanderer  o'er  the  world's  wide  sea, 
Half  the  joy  it  gave  to  me, 
Half  the  gladness  born  of  pain 
I  shall  not  have  sung  in  vain. 


SEA  FOAM  193 

Take  my  song  and  let  it  be 
As  the  foam  upon  the  sea; 
Let  it  live  and  love  and  die, 
It  is  not  more  frail  than  I. 


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